Tim and Tip
Date: 2024-09-18T00:00:00+00:00
Keywords: Dogs -- Juvenile fiction; Conduct of life -- Juvenile fiction; Children -- Conduct of life -- Juvenile fiction; Boys -- Juvenile fiction; Bears -- Juvenile fiction; Hunting stories; Ship captains -- Juvenile fiction; Death -- Juvenile fiction; Aunts -- Juvenile fiction; Hunting -- Juvenile fiction

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Title: Tim and Tip
or, The adventures of a boy and a dog

Author: James Otis

Illustrator: W. A. Rogers

Release date: September 18, 2024 [eBook #74436]

Language: English

Original publication: New York: Harper & Brothers Publishers, 1883

Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/74436

Credits: Produced by Donald Cummings and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK TIM AND TIP ***

TIM AND TIP

HARPER’S YOUNG PEOPLE’S SERIES

New Large-type Edition

Toby Tyler | James Otis
Mr. Stubbs’s Brother | James Otis
Tim and Tip | James Otis
Raising the “Pearl” | James Otis
Adventures of Buffalo Bill | W. F. Cody
Diddie, Dumps and Tot | Mrs. L. C. Pyrnelle
Music and Musicians | Lucy C. Lillie
The Cruise of the Canoe Club | W. L. Alden
The Cruise of the “Ghost” | W. L. Alden
Moral Pirates | W. L. Alden
A New Robinson Crusoe | W. L. Alden
Prince Lazybones | Mrs. W. J. Hays
The Flamingo Feather | Kirk Munroe
Derrick Sterling | Kirk Munroe
Chrystal, Jack & Co. | Kirk Munroe
Wakulla | Kirk Munroe
The Ice Queen | Ernest Ingersoll
The Red Mustang | W. O. Stoddard
The Talking Leaves | W. O. Stoddard
Two Arrows | W. O. Stoddard

HARPER & BROTHERS
PUBLISHERS

TIM SHOWS THE MARKS OF CAPTAIN BABBIGE’S WHIP

TIM AND TIP
or

The Adventures of a Boy
and a Dog

BY

JAMES OTIS

Author of “Mr. Stubbs’s Brother,”
“Toby Tyler,” Etc.

ILLUSTRATED

HARPER & BROTHERS PUBLISHERS
NEW YORK AND LONDON

TIM AND TIP

Copyright, 1883, by Harper & Brothers

Copyright, 1911, by James Otis Kaler

Printed in the U. S. A.

CONTENTS

CHAPTER | | PAGE
I. | Tim’s Flight | 1
II. | Sam, the Fat Boy | 10
III. | Tip’s Introduction to Mrs. Simpson | 25
IV. | Tim’s Start in Life | 41
V. | Life on Board the “Pride of the Wave” | 58
VI. | Tim Makes an Acquaintance | 74
VII. | Tip’s Hurried Landing | 95
VIII. | Minchin’s Island | 110
IX. | The Famous Bear-Hunt | 129
X. | Bill Thompson’s Tent | 153
XI. | One Cook Spoils the Broth | 168
XII. | Tip’s Danger | 185
XIII. | In Conclusion | 202

ILLUSTRATIONS

Tim Shows the Marks of Captain Babbige’s Whip | Frontispiece
| FACING PAGE
“Peppermint or Lemon?” | 20
The Small Passenger with the Large Valise | 75
Making Ready to Embark | 136

TIM AND TIP

TIM AND TIP

OR,

The Adventures of a Boy and a Dog

Chapter I.
TIM’S FLIGHT.

“Strayed.—A boy from the home of the subscriber; and any one returning him will be suitably rewarded. Said boy is about eleven years old, has short, light hair, a turned-up nose, and face very much tanned. When last seen he had on a suit of blue clothes considerably faded and worn, and had with him a yellow dog, with a long body, short legs, and a short tail. The boy answers to the name of Tim, and the dog to that of Tip. Any information regarding the runaway will be liberally paid for. Address Captain Rufus Babbige, in care of this office.”

“There, Tim,” said the man who had been reading the advertisement aloud from the columns of a country newspaper to a very small boy, with large, dark eyes, and an exceedingly dirty face, who was listening intently, “you see that Rufe Babbige don’t intend to let you get away as easy as you thought, for he’s willing to pay something for any news of you, though I’ll be bound he won’t part with very much money.”

“But he always said he wished I’d have sense enough to die,” replied the boy, trying to choke down the sob of terror which would rise in his throat at the idea of being thus advertised for as though he were a thief; “an’ it don’t seem to me that there’s been a day but what he or Aunt Betsey have given me a whippin’ since my mother died. Look here!”

As he spoke the boy pushed the ragged coat sleeves up from his thin arms, showing long discolorations which had evidently been made by a whip-lash.

“It’s all over me just like that, an’ I don’t see what he wants Tip an’ me back for, ’cause he’s always said he wished he was rid of us.”

“It’s a shame to treat a boy that always behaved himself as well as you did like that,” said the proprietor of the country store into which the runaway had entered to purchase a couple of crackers, “an’ I don’t see what the folks up in Selman were thinking of to let him abuse you so. I don’t approve of boys running away, but in your case I think the only fault is that you didn’t run sooner.”

“But now that he’s put it in the paper he’ll be sure to catch me, for I’m only six miles from Selman;” and the big tears began to roll down the boy’s cheeks, marking their course by the clean lines they left on the dirty face.

“Anybody that knows him wouldn’t any more think of sending you back to him than they would of cutting your hand off,” said the man, as he shook his fist savagely in the direction Captain Babbige was supposed to be.

“But what does he want us for, when he’s always wanted to get rid of us?” persisted the boy, stooping down to caress a very queer-looking dog, whose body seemed to have been stretched out, and whose legs looked as if they had been worn down by much running.

“I reckon I can tell you why he wants you, Tim, and when you get older it’ll do you some good to know it. He’s your uncle, an’ your legal guardian, an’ I’ve been told by them that knows that he’s got quite a sum of money belonging to you, which would all be his if you should die. Some day when you are of age you come back here and claim it; but don’t you let him get hold of you again now.”

“Indeed I won’t,” replied the boy, trembling at the thought of the fate which would be his if he should be so unlucky as to fall into the captain’s clutches again.

“Run away from here so far that he can’t find you, and when you get a place where you can go to work be as good a boy as I’ve always known you to be, and you’ll come out of this trouble by being a good, honest man. Here’s a couple of dollars for you, and I only wish it was in my power to take you home with me and keep you. But Rufe Babbige would soon break that up, and the best thing you can do is to trudge off as fast as possible.”

The boy tried to thank the kind-hearted shopkeeper, but the tears were coming so fast, and the big sob in his throat had got so far up toward his mouth, that he could not utter a word.

Just then a customer entered the store, and he hurried away at once, closely followed by the odd-looking dog, who displayed, in his way, quite as much affection for the boy as the boy did for him.

Down through the one street of the little village, out on to the country road, the two walked as if they were already foot-sore and weary; and when at last they came to where the road wound along through the woods Tim sat down on a rock to rest, while Tip huddled up close beside him.

“It’s kinder too bad to be called such names in the papers, ain’t it, Tip?” said the boy, speaking for the first time since they had left the store, “an’ I think he ought to be ’shamed of hisself to talk so about you. It ain’t your fault if your legs is short an’ your tail gone; you’re worth more’n all the dogs in this world, an’ you’re all that I’ve got to love me, an’ we’ll never go back to let Captain Babbige beat us any more, will we, Tip?”

Just then the dog, which had been chewing some blades of grass, got one in his nose, a mishap which caused him to sneeze and shake his head vigorously; while Tim, who firmly believed that Tip understood all that was said to him, looked upon this as a token that the dog agreed to what he had said, and he continued, earnestly:

“I know just as well as you do, Tip, that it wasn’t right for us to run away, but how could we help it? They kept tellin’ us we was in the way an’ they wished we’d die, and everybody that was kind to us told us we’d better do just what we have done. Now we’re off in the big, wide world all by ourselves, Tip, an’ whether the cap’en catches us or not, you’ll love me just as much as you always have, won’t you, for you’re all I’ve got that cares for me?”

The dog was still busy trying to settle the question about the grass in his nose, and after that was decided in his favor he looked up at his young master and barked several times, as if expressing his opinion about something, which the boy interpreted as advice.

“Well, I s’pose you’re right, Tip—we had ought to go along, for if we don’t we sha’n’t even find a barn to sleep in, as we did last night.”

As he spoke Tim arose wearily from his hard seat, his legs stiff from long walking, and trudged along, while Tip followed as closely at his heels as it was possible for him to get.

It was nearly sunset, and as he walked on it seemed as if he was getting farther into the woods, instead of coming out at some place where he could find shelter for the night.

“Looks kinder lonesome, don’t it, Tip?” and Tim choked back a sob as he spoke. “I don’t want to sleep out here in the woods if I can help it; but it wouldn’t be half so bad if one of us was alone, would it?”

In this fashion, keeping up a sort of a conversation—if it could be called such where one did all the talking and the other wagged his short stump of a tail—the two journeyed on until it was almost too dark to distinguish objects a short distance ahead.

Only once since the store-keeper had given him the two dollars had Tim thought of what he had said regarding Captain Babbige’s having money of his, and then he put it out of his mind as an impossibility, for surely, he thought, he would not have scolded so about what he and his dog ate if Tim had had any property of his own.

“I guess we shall have to sleep in the woods, Tip,” said Tim, disconsolately, as the trees appeared to be less thick together, but yet no signs of a house; “but it won’t be much worse than what Aunt Betsey calls a bed good enough for boys like me.”

Just at that instant Tim was frightened out of nearly all his senses, and Tip started on a barking match that threatened to shake his poor apology of a tail from his thin body, by hearing a shrill voice cry out:

“Look here, feller, where are you goin’ this time of night?”

Chapter II.
SAM, THE FAT BOY.

Tim stopped as quickly as if he had stepped into a pool of glue which had suddenly hardened, holding him prisoner, and peered anxiously ahead, trying to discover where the voice came from.

“Didn’t know there was anybody ’round here, did yer?” continued the voice, while the body still remained hidden from view.

Again Tim tried to discover the speaker, and, failing in the attempt, he asked, in a sort of frightened desperation, “Who are you, anyhow?”

“Call off yer dog, an’ I’ll show yer.”

These words made Tim feel very much braver, for they showed that the speaker as well as himself was frightened, and he lost no time in reducing Tip to a state of subjection by clasping him firmly around the neck.

“Now come out; he wouldn’t hurt a fly, an’ it’s only his way to bark when he’s kinder scared.”

Thus urged, the party afraid of the dog came out of his place of hiding, which was none other than the branches of a tree, by simply dropping to the ground—a proceeding which gave another shock to the nerves of both Tim and Tip.

But there was nothing about him very alarming, and when Tim had a full view of him, he was inclined to be angry with himself for having allowed so short a boy to frighten him. He was no taller than Tim and, as near as could be seen in the dim light, about as broad as he was long—a perfect ball of jelly, with a face, two legs, and two arms carved on it.

It was impossible to gain a good view of his face, but that did not trouble Tim, who was only anxious to learn who this boy was, and whether he might be sufficiently acquainted with Captain Babbige to send him news of the runaway.

The new-comer did not appear to be in any hurry to begin the conversation, but stood, with his hands in his pockets, eying Tim as though he was some strange animal who might be expected to cut up queer antics at any moment.

“Hullo!” said Tim, after he thought the fat boy had looked at him quite as long as was necessary.

“Hullo!” was the reply.

“Where did you come from?”

“Outer that tree there,” replied the boy, bravely, as he pointed to the place where he had been hiding.

“Yes, I saw you come out of there; but that ain’t where you live, is it?”

“No.”

“Where do you live?” And Tim was beginning to think that it required a great deal of labor to extract a small amount of knowledge from this fat party.

“Oh, I live over the hill, about half a mile down the road. Got anything good to eat?”

The question seemed so unnecessary and out of place, considering all the circumstances, that Tim took no notice of it, but asked, “What’s your name?”

“Sam.”

“Sam what?”

“I dunno, but I guess it’s Simpson.”

“Well, you’re funny if you ain’t sure what your name is,” said Tim, thoughtfully, forgetting his own troubles in his curiosity about this queer specimen. “What makes you think your name’s Simpson?”

“’Cause that’s my father’s name.”

By this time Tim had released his hold of Tip’s neck, and the dog walked around Sam on a sort of smelling tour, very much to the boy’s discomfort.

“Don’t be afraid,” said Tim, “he won’t bite you. He’s the best and quietest dog in the world if you only let him alone.”

“I’ll let him alone,” replied Sam, still in doubt as to Tip’s good intentions. “I’ll let him alone, an’ I wish he’d let me alone.”

“He’s only kinder gettin’ acquainted, that’s all. Say, do you s’pose your father would let me sleep in his barn to-night?”

“I dunno. What do you want to for?”

“’Cause I ain’t got any other place.”

If Sam hadn’t been so fat he would probably have started in surprise; but as it was he expressed his astonishment by a kind of grunt, and, going nearer to Tim, he asked, “Where do you live?”

“Nowhere. Me an’ Tip are tryin’ to find some place where we can earn our own livin’,” replied Tim, in doubt as to whether he ought to tell this boy his whole story or not.

“Ain’t you got any father or mother?”

“No,” was the sad reply. “They’re both dead, an’ me an’ Tip have to look out for ourselves. We did live with Captain Babbige, but we couldn’t stand it any longer, an’ so we started out on our own hook.”

“Where do you get things to eat?”

“We’ve got some money to buy ’em with.”

“How much have you got?”

“I had two cents when I left Selman, an’ Mr. Sullivan, that keeps a store down to the mills, gave me two dollars.”

“I’ll tell you what let’s do,” said Sam, eagerly, as his eyes sparkled with delight. “Jest the other side of my house there’s a store, an’ we can go down there an’ get two big sticks of candy, an’ have an awful good time.”

Tim reflected a moment. He knew that he ought to keep his money; but Sam’s idea seemed such a good one that the thought of the pleasure which would come with the eating of the candy was too much for his notions of economy; therefore he compromised by saying, “I will, if you’ll let me sleep in your barn.”

Sam quickly agreed to that—in order to get the candy he would probably have promised to give the entire farm away—and the three—Sam, Tim and Tip—started off, the best of friends.

But before they had gone very far Sam stopped in the middle of the road, saying, mournfully, “My! but I forgot all about the cow!”

“What cow?”

“Father sent me down here to find old Whiteface, an’ I forgot all about her when I saw you.”

“Well, why don’t you find her now? Me an’ Tip will help you.”

“But it’ll take so long, an’ before we get back the store will be shut up,” objected Sam, who stood undecided in the road, as if he had half a mind to leave old Whiteface to her fate while he made sure of the candy.

“Never mind if the store is shut up,” said Tim, earnestly. “We can get the candy just as well in the morning, an’ perhaps we’ll find her so quick that there’ll be plenty of time.”

“Will you buy the candy in the mornin’ if you don’t to-night?”

“Yes, I will, honest.”

“Cross your throat.”

Tim went through the ceremony of crossing his throat to make his promise more solemn, and search was made for the cow.

Up to this time it was plain that Sam did not feel any great amount of love for or confidence in Tip; but when, after a few moments’ search, his loud bark told that he had discovered the missing cow, his future was assured, so far as Sam Simpson was concerned.

“Now, that’s somethin’ like,” he said, after they had started homeward. “When you’ve got such a dog as that, all a feller’s got to do is to set down an’ send him after ’em. It’s the awfullest hateful thing in the world to go off huntin’ cows when you don’t want to.”

Tim had many and serious doubts as to whether Tip could be depended on to go for the cows alone; but he did not think it best to put those doubts in words, lest he should deprive his pet of his new-found friend.

It was only a ten minutes’ walk to Sam’s home, and when the cow had been led to her stall Tim proposed that Sam should ask permission for him to sleep in the barn.

“There’s time enough for that when we come back,” was Sam’s reply, the thought of the candy he was to have in case they reached the store before it was closed for the night driving all else from his mind. “Come on; we’ll catch Mr. Coburn if we hurry.”

Now, Tim would much rather have had the question settled as to his sleeping quarters before starting out for pleasure; but Sam was so eager for the promised feast that he felt obliged to do as he said, more especially since it was through his influence that he hoped to receive the favor.

Naturally Sam Simpson was not a quick-motioned boy; but no one could have complained of the speed with which he went toward Mr. Coburn’s store that night, and Tim found it hard work to keep pace with him.

The store was open, but the proprietor was just making preparations for closing. The candy, placed in two rather dirty glass jars, was in its accustomed place, and beamed down upon them in all its sticky sweetness, delighting Sam simply by the view to such an extent that he could hardly keep his two feet upon the floor.

With a gravity befitting the occasion and the amount of wealth he was about to squander, Tim asked to be allowed to see the goods he proposed to buy, in order to make sure they were of the proper length.

Old Mr. Coburn rubbed his glasses carefully, wiped his face as a sort of preface to his task, and set about making this last sale of the day with the air of a man who knows he is called upon to deal with very exacting customers.

It was fully five minutes before Tim could settle the weighty question of whether it was better to buy a stick of peppermint and one of lemon, and thus by dividing them get two distinct treats, or to take both of one kind, and thus prevent any dispute as to whether he had made a just and equal division.

“PEPPERMINT OR LEMON?”

While this struggle was going on in the purchaser’s mind Sam fidgeted around, standing first on one foot and then on the other, watching every movement Tim made, while Tip searched over every portion of the store, very much to Mr. Coburn’s annoyance.

The decision was finally made, but not before Mr. Coburn hinted that he could not afford to burn a quart of oil in order that his customers might see how to spend two cents, and, with a peppermint stick in one hand and a lemon stick in the other, Tim left the store, followed by Sam and preceded by Tip.

To make a fair division of the sweet feast was quite as great a task as the purchase had been, and it was begun in the gravest manner.

The two sticks were carefully measured, and by the aid of Sam’s half-bladed jack-knife, broken at the proper place. A large rock by the side of the road served as a seat, and there the two boys munched away as slowly as possible, in order that the feast might be prolonged to the utmost.

Tip sat close by, watching every mouthful in a hungry way, but refusing the portion Tim offered him.

Now that the feast was fast fading away into only a remembrance, the thought of where he was to spend the night began to trouble Tim again, and he asked, anxiously, “Sure your father will let me sleep in the barn?”

Before the candy had been purchased the fat boy had been perfectly sure Tim could sleep in his father’s barn; but now that the dainty was in his possession he began to have some doubts on the subject.

“I’ll tell you what we’ll do,” he said, his mouth so full of candy that Tim could hardly understand him. “Father an’ mother will be in bed when we get home, an’ it won’t be any use to bother ’em. You come right up-stairs to bed with me, an’ we’ll fix it in the morning.”

“I’d rather ask them, an’ sleep in the barn,” said Tim, not half liking this plan.

“But they’ll be asleep, an’ you can’t,” was the quiet reply.

“Then I’d rather go in the barn anyway.”

“Now see here,” said Sam, with an air of wisdom, as he sucked the remaining particles of candy from his fingers, “I know father an’ mother better’n you do, don’t I?”

“Yes,” replied Tim, glad that Sam had made one statement with which he could agree.

“Then you do jest as I tell you. We’ll creep up-stairs like a couple of mice, an’ in the morning I’ll fix everything. Mother wouldn’t want you to sleep in the barn when you could come with me as well as not; an’ you do as I tell you.”

It did not seem to Tim that he could do anything else, and he said, as he slid down from the rock, “I’ll do it, Sam, but I rather you’d ask them.”

Sam, content with having gained his point, walked silently along, with Tim by his side, and followed by Tip, who acted as if he knew he was going out to spend the night without a proper invitation.

When they reached the house not a light was to be seen, and the three crept up-stairs, not quite as softly as mice, but so quietly that Mr. and Mrs. Simpson did not hear them.

That night Sam, Tim, and Tip lay on one bed, and neither one of them lost any sleep by thinking of their possible reception in the morning.

Chapter III.
TIP’S INTRODUCTION TO MRS. SIMPSON.

On the following morning Tim and Sam were awakened very suddenly by a confused noise, which appeared to come from the kitchen below, and which could not have been greater had a party of boys been engaged in a game of leap-frog there.

A woman’s screams were heard amid the crashing of furniture as it was overturned, the breaking of crockery, and the sounds of scurryings to and fro, while high above all came, at irregular intervals, the yelp of a dog.

This last sound caused Tim the greatest fear. A hasty glance around the room had shown him that Tip, who had been peacefully curled up on the outside of the bed when he last remembered anything, was no longer to be seen, and, without knowing how it could have happened, he was sure it was none other than his pet who was uttering those cries of distress.

In a few moments more he learned that he was not mistaken, for Tip rushed into the room, his tongue hanging out, his stub of a tail sticking straight up, and looking generally as though he had been having a hard time of it.

Before Tim, who had at once leaped out of bed, could comfort his pet, a voice, sounding as if its owner was sadly out of breath, was heard crying, “Sam! Sam! Sammy!”

“What, marm?” replied Sam, who lay quaking with fear, and repenting the fact that his desire for candy had led him into what looked very much like a bad scrape.

“Did a dog just come into your room?”

“Yes, marm.”

“Throw something at him and drive him out.”

For an instant Sam clutched the pillow as if he would obey the command; but Tim had his arms around Tip’s neck, ready to save him from any injury, even if he was obliged to suffer himself.

“Why don’t you drive him out?” cried Mrs. Simpson, after she had vainly waited to hear the sound of her son’s battle with the animal.

“Why—why—why—” stammered Sam, at a loss to know what to say, and trembling with fear.

“Are you afraid of him?”

“No, marm,” was the faltering reply.

“Then why don’t you do as I tell you?”

“Why—why, Tim won’t let me,” cried Sam, now so frightened that he hardly knew what he did say.

“Why, what’s the matter with the boy?” Tim heard the good woman say; and then the sound of rapid footsteps on the stairs told that she was coming to make a personal investigation.

Sam, in a tremor of fear, rolled over on his face and buried his head in the pillow, as if by such a course he could shelter himself from the storm he expected was about to break upon him.

Tim was crouching in the middle of the floor, his face close down to Tip’s nose, and his arms clasped so tightly around the dog’s neck that it seemed as if he would choke him.

That was the scene Mrs. Simpson looked in upon after she had been nearly frightened out of her senses by a strange dog while she was cooking breakfast. She had tried to turn the intruder out-of-doors; but he, thinking she wanted to play with him, had acted in such a strange and at the same time familiar manner, that she had become afraid, and the confusion which had awakened the boys had been caused by both, when neither knew exactly what to do.

Mrs. Simpson stood at the room door looking in fully half a minute before she could speak, and then she asked, “What is the meaning of this, Samuel?”

Sam made no reply, but buried his face deeper in the pillows, while the ominous shaking of his fat body told that he was getting ready to cry in advance of the whipping he expected to receive.

“Who is this boy?” asked the lady, finding that her first question was likely to receive no reply.

Sam made no sign of life, and Tim, knowing that something must be said at once, replied piteously, “Please, ma’am, it’s only me an’ Tip.”

Sam’s face was still buried in the pillows; but the trembling had ceased, as if he was anxious to learn whether his companion could extricate himself from the position into which he had been led.

“Who are you, and how did you come here?” asked Mrs. Simpson, wonderingly.

Tim turned toward the bed, as if he expected Sam would answer that question; but that young man made no sign that he had even heard it, and Tim was obliged to tell the story.

“I’m only Tim Babbige, an’ this is Tip. We was tryin’ to find a place to sleep last night, when we met Sam, an’ after we’d found the cow we went down to the store an’ bought some candy, an’ when we come back Sam was goin’ to ask you to let me sleep in the barn, but you was in bed; so he said it was all right for me to come up here an’ sleep with him. I’m awful sorry I did it, an’ sorry Tip acted so bad; but if you won’t scold we’ll go right straight away.”

Mrs. Simpson was by no means a hard-hearted woman, and the boy’s explanation, as well as his piteous way of making it, caused her to feel kindly disposed toward him. She asked him about himself; and by the time he had finished telling of the death of his parents, the cruel treatment he had received from Captain and Mrs. Babbige, and of his desperate attempt at bettering his condition, her womanly heart had a great deal of sympathy in it for him.

Then Tim added, as if it was the last of his pitiful story, “Me an’ Tip ain’t got anybody who cares for us but each other, an’ if we don’t get a chance to work, so’s we can get some place to live, I don’t know what we will do.” Then he laid his head on the dog’s nose, and cried as though his little heart were breaking, while Tip set up a series of most doleful howls.

“You poor child,” said the good woman, kindly, “you’re not large enough to work for your living, and I don’t know what Mr. Simpson will say to your being here very long; but you shall stay till we see what can be done for you, whatever he says. Now, don’t cry any more, but dress yourself, and come down-stairs and help me clean up the litter the dog and I made. Sam, you lazy boy,” she added, as she turned toward her half-concealed son, “get up and dress yourself. You ought to be ashamed for not telling me last night what you were about.”

Then, patting Tim on the head, the good woman went down-stairs to attend to her household duties.

As soon as the sound of the closing door told that his mother had left the room Sam rolled out of bed, much as a duck gets out of her nest, and said triumphantly to Tim, who was busy dressing, “Well, we got out of that scrape all right, didn’t we?”

Tim looked up at him reproachfully, remembering Sam’s silence when the affair looked so dark; but he contented himself with simply saying, “Yes, it’s all right till we see what your father will say about it.”

“Oh, he won’t say anything so long as mother don’t,” was the confident reply; and the conversation was ended by Tim going down-stairs to help Mrs. Simpson in repairing the damage done by Tip.

Before he had been helping her very long he showed himself so apt at such work that she asked, “How does it happen that you are so handy at such things?”

“I don’t know,” replied Tim, bashfully, “’cept that Aunt Betsey always made me help her in the kitchen, an’ I s’pose it comes handy for a feller to do what he must do.”

By the time Sam came down-stairs the kitchen presented its usual neat appearance, and he was disposed to make light of his mother’s fright; but she soon changed his joy to grief by telling him to go to the spring for a pail of water.

Now, if there was one thing more than another which Sam disliked to do, it was to bring water from the spring. The distance was long, and he believed it was unhealthy for him to lift as much weight as that contained in a ten-quart pail of water. As usual, he began to make a variety of excuses, chief among which was the one that the water brought the night before was as cool and fresh as any that could be found in the spring.

Tim, anxious to make himself useful in any way, offered to go, and then Sam was perfectly willing to point out the spring, and to generally superintend the job.

“Tim may go to help you,” said Mrs. Simpson, “but you are not to let him do all the work.”

Sam muttered something which his mother understood to mean that he would obey her, and the boys left the house, going through the grove of pine-trees that bordered a little pond, at one side of which, sunk deep in the earth, was a hogshead, into which the water bubbled and flowed from its bed under the ground.

But Sam was far more interested in pointing out objects of interest to himself than in leading the way to the spring. He showed Tim the very hole where he had captured a woodchuck alive, called his attention to a tree in which he was morally certain a family of squirrels had their home, and enlarged upon the merits of certain kinds of traps best calculated to deceive the bushy-tailed beauties.

Tim did not fancy this idea of idling when there was work to be done; and as soon as he saw the spring he hurried off, in the middle of a story Sam was telling about a rabbit he caught the previous winter.

“What’s the use of bein’ in such a rush?” asked Sam, as, obliged to end his story, he ran after Tim. “Mother don’t want the water till breakfast’s ready, an’ that won’t be for a good while yet. Jest come over on this side the pond, an’ I’ll show you the biggest frog you ever saw in your life; that is, if he’s got out of bed yet.”

“Let’s get the water first, an’ then we can come back an’ see everything,” said Tim, as he hurried on.

“But jest come down here a minute while I see if I can poke him out of his hole,” urged Sam, as he picked up a stick and started for the frog’s home.

Tim paid no attention to him; he had been sent for water, and he did not intend to waste any time until that work had been done. He leaned over the side of the hogshead to lower the pail in, when Sam shouted, “Come here; I’ve found him!”

But Tim went on with his work; and just as he had filled the pail, and was drawing it up, he heard a cry of fear, accompanied by a furious splashing, which he knew could not come from a frog, however large he might be.

Dropping his pail, at the risk of having it sink beyond his reach, he looked up just in time to see a pair of very fat legs sticking above the water at that point where the frog was supposed to reside, and to hear a gurgling sound, as if the owner of the legs was strangling.

For a single moment Tim was at a loss to account for the disappearance of Sam, and the sudden appearance of those legs; but by seeing Tip run toward the spot, barking furiously, and by seeing the stick which was to have disturbed the frog in his morning nap floating on the water, he understood that Sam had fallen into the pond, without having had half so much fun with the frog as he expected.

Tim, now thoroughly frightened, ran quickly toward his unfortunate companion, calling loudly for help.

When he reached the bank from which Sam had slipped the legs were still sticking straight up in the air, showing that their owner’s head had stuck fast in the mud. By holding on to the bushes with one hand, and stretching out the other, he succeeded in getting hold of Sam’s trousers, at which he struggled and pulled with all his strength. Although it could hardly be expected that so slight a boy as Tim could do very much toward handling so heavy a body as Sam’s, he did succeed in freeing him from the mud, and in pulling him to the surface of the water.

After nearly five minutes of hard work, during which Tip did all he could to help, Tim succeeded in pulling the fat boy into more shallow water, where he managed to get on to his feet again.

A mournful-looking picture he made as he stood on the bank, with the water running from every point of his clothing, while the black mud in which he had been stuck formed a cap for his head, and portions of it ran down over his face, striping him as decidedly as ever fancy painted an Indian.

He was a perfect picture of fat, woe, and dirt, and if he had not been in such peril a few moments before Tim would have laughed outright.

He was evidently trying to say something, for he kept gasping for breath, and each time he opened his mouth it was filled with the mud and water that ran from his hair.

“What is the matter?” asked Tim, anxiously. “Art you hurt much?”

“No—no,” gasped Sam; “but—but I saw the frog.”

This time Tim did not try to restrain his mirth; and when Mrs. Simpson, who had been startled by Tim’s cries for help, arrived on the spot, she found nothing very alarming. Master Sam received a severe shaking, and was led away to be cleaned while Tim and Tip were left to attend to the work of bringing the water.

At breakfast—where Sam ate so heartily that it was evident he had not been injured by his bath—the question of what should be done about allowing Tim to remain was discussed by Mr. and Mrs. Simpson.

The farmer said that a boy as small as he could not earn his salt, and it would be better for him to try to find a family who had no boys of their own, or go back to Captain Babbige, where he belonged. He argued, while Tim listened in fear, that it was wrong to encourage boys to run away from their lawful protectors, and was inclined to make light of the suffering Tim had told about.

Fortunately for the runaway, Mrs. Simpson believed his story entirely, and would not listen to any proposition to send him back to Selman. The result of the matter was that Mr. Simpson agreed to allow him to remain there a few days, but with the distinct understanding that his stay must be short.

This was even more than the homeless boy had expected, and he appeared so thankful and delighted at the unwilling consent that the farmer began to think perhaps there was more in him than appeared on the surface, although he still remained firm in his decision that he must leave the farm as soon as possible.

Chapter IV.
TIM’S START IN LIFE.

During the first day of Tim’s stay at the Simpson farm he was careful to help in every kind of work, and many were the praises he won from Mrs. Simpson, who held him up as an example to Sam until that young man almost felt sorry he had brought him there.

At night Tim went with Sam for the cow, and here it was that Tip made a most miserable failure, so far as showing that he was a valuable dog was concerned.

Sam, remembering how easily the dog had found the cow the night before, wanted to wait by the bars and let Tip go in and bring her out, and Tim was obliged to tell him that his pet had not been trained to do that.

Then Sam put on an injured air, as if his mistake had come from something Tim had said, rather than being an idea from his own rather thick head.

That night the boys and the dog went again to Mr. Coburn’s store; not because Tim proposed to spend any of his two dollars, but because there was a great fascination about the place for Sam. He delighted to lounge around there, at a time when he ought to have been in bed, listening to the conversation of older loafers, believing he was gaining wisdom and an insight into the ways of the world at the same time.

On that particular night there were not so many of the noble army of loafers present as usual, and the conversation was so dull that Mr. Coburn found plenty of time to question Tim as to every little particular about himself.

Tim saw no reason why he should gratify the store-keeper’s curiosity, and perhaps let some one know his story who would think it his duty to send information to Captain Babbige, so he contented himself by simply saying that he had come there in the hope of getting some work to do.

“Want to work, do yer?” asked a stout man, with a very red face and gruff voice, who had been listening to the conversation.

“Yes, sir,” replied Tim, a trifle awed by the gruffness of the voice.

“What can you do?” and the red-faced man now turned to have a better view.

“’Most anything, sir.”

“Where are yer folks?”

“My father an’ mother are dead,” said Tim, sadly, as he stooped to pat Tip’s head in a loving way.

“Well, now, see here,” and the man took Tim by the arm, as if he was about to examine his muscle: “I’m the captain of a steamboat that runs out of the city, and I want just such a boy as you are to work ’round at anything. I’ll give you three dollars a month and find you. What do you say to it? Will you come?”

Tim was not exactly certain what the gruff-voiced man meant when he said he would pay him so much money and “find him,” and he hesitated about answering until he could understand it.

Mr. Coburn thought it was the wages that prevented a speedy acceptance of the brilliant offer, and he hastened to show his friendliness to the captain by saying:

“Such offers as them don’t grow on every bush, sonny, an’ you had better take it. I’ve known Captain Pratt a good many years, an’ I know he will treat you just as if he was your father. Three dollars is a good deal of money for a little shaver like you.”

Tim looked at Sam for a moment doubtfully, and then he thought of what Mr. Simpson had said about his remaining at the farm.

“Can I take Tip with me?”

“Oh, that’s your dog, is it? He hain’t a very handsome one; but I suppose you can find a chance for him somewhere on the boat—yes, you can take him.”

“Then I’ll go with you.”

“All right. I shall start from this store to-morrow morning at ten o’clock. Will you be here?”

“Yes, sir,” replied Tim, and then he beckoned Sam to go out. He had made up his mind suddenly, and now that it was too late to draw back he wanted to talk the matter over, and hear what Sam had to say about it.

There was no need for him to have feared that Sam did not look with favor upon the plan, for before they were out of sight of the loungers in the store that young man burst out in an envious tone:

“Well, you are the awfullest luckiest feller I ever heard of! Here you’ve gone an’ got a chance to run a steamboat, where you won’t have anything to do but jest sail ’round wherever you want to. I wish it was me that was going.”

If Tim had been in doubt before as to the wisdom of the step he was about to take, he was perfectly satisfied now that Sam was so delighted with it, and he began to think that perhaps he had been fortunate.

Mr. Simpson did not seem to think the opening in life which had been so suddenly discovered for Tim was so very brilliant, and Mrs. Simpson actually looked as if she felt sorry. But, as neither of them made any objection to it, or offered the boy a home with them, there was nothing to prevent him from carrying out the agreement he had made.

At a very early hour on the following morning Tim was up and dressed. Sam’s glowing pictures of the happy life he was about to lead had so excited him that he was anxious to begin it at once, and his sleep had been troubled by dreams of life on a steamboat under all kinds of possible and impossible circumstances.

Mr. Simpson gave him twenty-five cents as a nest-egg to the fortune he was about to make; and when Mrs. Simpson packed a generous lunch for him he choked up so badly that it was only with the greatest difficulty he could thank her for her kindness.

“Be a good boy, and never do anything to be ashamed of,” was the good lady’s parting charge, and he answered:

“I’ll try hard, so’s you sha’n’t be sorry you was so good to me.”

Sam walked toward the store with him, while as lonely and envious a feeling as he ever knew came over him as he thought of all the things Tim would see, simply because he had neither home nor parents, while he, who had both, was obliged to remain where he could see nothing.

“I wish it was me that was goin’,” he said, with a sigh of envy.

“If I had as good a home as you’ve got I wouldn’t want to go away,” replied Tim, gravely; and yet Sam had talked so much about the charms of the life he was so soon to lead that he had already begun to look upon himself as a very fortunate boy, and was impatient to begin his work at once.

The walk to Mr. Coburn’s store was not a long one; and although they were there fully half an hour before the time agreed upon, they found Captain Pratt ready and waiting for them. In fact, it seemed almost as if he feared his new boy, however unimportant the position he was to occupy, would not keep the agreement he had made.

“I’m glad to see you on hand early, for it’s a good sign,” and the captain’s face was wreathed in what he intended should be a pleasing smile, but which really was an ugly grimace.

Tim hardly knew what reply to make, for that smile caused him to feel very uncomfortable; but he managed to say that he would always try to be on time, and the captain, in the excess of his good nature, gave him such a forcibly friendly slap on the shoulder that his teeth chattered.

In order to reach the city from the four corners where Mr. Pratt lived it was necessary to ride four miles in a carriage, and then take the steam cars.

An open wagon was the mode of conveyance; and as the driver was quite large, while Captain Pratt was no small party, there was no other way for Tim to ride save curled up in the end, where he could keep a lookout for Tip, who was, of course, to follow on behind as fast as his short legs would permit.

When everything was ready for the start, and Captain Pratt was making some final business arrangements with Mr. Coburn, Sam bade Tim good-bye.

“You’re awful lucky,” he said, as he clambered up on the wagon, where he could whisper in his friend’s ear; “an’ if you see any place for me on the steamer, send word right up—you can tie a note on Tip’s collar an’ send him up with it—an’ I’ll come right down.”

Sam would have said more, but the horse started; he nearly tumbled from his perch, and Tim’s journey to the city had begun.

It seemed to Tim that Captain Pratt changed as soon as they started. Instead of keeping up the idea of fatherly benevolence, which he had seemed to be full to running over with, he spoke sharply, and did not try to avoid hurting the boy’s feelings.

If, when the wagon jolted over the rough road, the boy’s head came in contact with his arm, which was thrown across the back of the seat, he would tell him to keep down where he belonged; and if he heard Tim’s heels knocking against the axle, he would scold him for not holding them up.

Between this sudden change in the kind captain’s ways and his fear that Tip would not be able to keep up with the wagon, Tim was feeling rather sad when the depot was reached.

During the ride on the cars Captain Pratt took very little notice of Tim, and when they arrived at the depot he simply said:

“Here boy, go down to Pier 43, and tell the steward of the Pride of the Wave that I’ve hired you, and get to work.”

Tim had no more idea of where Pier 43 was than he had of the location of the Cannibal Islands, but he started out with a great show of pluck, yet with a heavy heart.

With Tip following close at his heels, Tim walked some distance without seeing either wharves or water, and then he inquired the way.

The first gentleman to whom he spoke was a stranger in the city, and knew no more about it than he did; the second directed him in such a confusing way that he went almost opposite to where he should have gone; but the third one gave him the directions so clearly that he had no farther trouble in reaching the desired place.

The Pride of the Wave was not a large boat, and to any one accustomed to steamers would have seemed very shabby; but to Tim she appeared like a veritable floating palace, and it was some time before he dared to venture on board of her.

Finally he saw one of the deck hands, who, despite his dirty clothes, did not appear to be awed by the magnificence of the boat, and Tim asked him where he should find the steward.

The man told him to go below, and, with Tip still close at his heels, he went down the brass-covered stairs to the cabin, which was lined with berths on either side, wondering at all he saw, until he almost forgot why he was there.

He was soon startled out of this state of wonderment, however, by hearing a gruff voice shout:

“Now, then, youngster, what do you want?”

“I want to see the steward,” replied Tim, in a voice which could hardly be heard.

“I’m the steward. Now what else do you want?” replied the party who had spoken first, and who was a little, old, rather pleasant-faced man, with a voice about six sizes too large for his body.

Tim repeated the captain’s words as nearly as he could remember them, and the steward looked him over carefully, with just the faintest show of pity on his face.

“You don’t look as if you’d stand it very long to work for the captain of this boat; but that’s none of my business. Whose dog is that?”

“That’s Tip: he’s mine.”

“You’d better take him ashore. The captain ain’t over and above fond of dogs, and he won’t be likely to fall in love with one as ugly as that.”

“But he told me I could find a place for him somewhere on the boat,” said Tim, quickly, alarmed even at the suggestion that he part with Tip.

“Did he tell you so before or after he hired you?”

“Before I agreed to come he said I could keep Tip with me,” replied Tim, wondering at the question.

“Then he’ll forget he ever said so; and if you think anything of the dog, you’d better leave him on shore.”

“But I can’t,” cried Tim, piteously, his eyes filling with tears. “Tip’s the only relation I’ve got, an’ there’s no place where he could go.”

Tim’s distress touched the man’s heart, evidently, for he said, after a moment’s thought:

“Then you must find some place on board where the captain won’t be likely to see him, for he would throw him overboard in a minute if he took the notion. Come with me.”

The steward led the way to the bows of the boat, where the freight was stored, and after looking about some time, pointed out a little space formed by some water barrels.

“You’d better tie him in there for a while, and then, if you are going to stay very long on the boat, give him away.”

“But the captain said I might keep him with me,” cried Tim, fearing to leave Tip in so desolate a place.

“Well”—and now the steward began to grow impatient—“you can try keeping him with you if you want to run the risk, but I promise you the captain will make quick work of him if he sees him.”

Tim hesitated a moment, and then, stooping down, he kissed Tip on the nose, whispering to him:

“I wouldn’t leave you here if I could help it, Tip; but be a good dog, an’ we’ll have it fixed somehow pretty soon.”

Tip licked his master’s face in reply, but did not appear to understand the command to be a good dog; for when the rope was put around his neck he began to howl dolefully, and his cries went straight to Tim’s heart, inflicting as much pain as a blow on his flesh.

With the tears dropping very fast from his eyes, Tim tied Tip in the narrow place which was to serve him as home, at least until Captain Pratt’s intentions concerning him could be known, and then returned to the cabin as the steward had told him.

But as he started to go Tip looked up at him so piteously, uttering a whine that sounded in Tim’s ears so sad, that he ran back, knelt down by his dumb friend, and kissed him over and over again, saying, as he did so:

“Do be good, Tip. You don’t know how bad it makes me feel to have to leave you here, an’ I’d do anything in the world to have you go with me every step I take; but you’ve got to stay here, Tip, an’ I’ve got to leave you.”

Then, as the dog whined again, he cried, passionately: “Oh, what lonesome things we are, Tip! an’ we ain’t got anybody but each other in all this wide world;” and, with both arms around Tip’s neck, he gave way to a perfect flood of tears.

“Now, do be good, Tip, an’ don’t make me feel so bad,” he said, as he wiped his eyes on the dog’s head, and prepared once more to leave him.

It seemed almost as if the dog understood what his master had said, for he stopped whining, and made no sound, but kept wagging his little stump of a tail till Tim did not dare to look at him any longer.

He turned resolutely away, and, with eyes still blinded with tears, walked down into the cabin, where he was soon busily engaged in the not very pleasant occupation of cleaning knives.

Chapter V.
LIFE ON BOARD THE “PRIDE OF THE WAVE.”

When Tim first went on board the steamer which was to be his home, he thought, from the beautiful things he saw around, that he should live in a luxurious manner; but when he was shown the place in which he was to sleep, he learned that the fine things were for the passengers only, and that even comfort had been sacrificed in the quarters belonging to the crew.

He was given a berth in the forecastle, which was anything rather than a pleasant or even sweet-smelling place; and had it not been that he had the satisfaction of having Tip with him when he went to bed, he would have cried even harder and longer than he did.

Captain Pratt had not made his appearance on the steamer that day; but the steward had told him that his duties as captain’s boy would begin next morning at breakfast, when he would be expected to wait upon the captain at the table. The last thing Tim thought of that night was how he should acquit himself in what he felt would be a trying position, and the first thing which came into his mind when he awoke on the following morning was whether he would succeed in pleasing his new employer or not.

After kissing Tip over and over again, and with many requests to him to be a good dog and not make a noise, Tim tied his pet in his narrow quarters, and then made his own toilet. He really made a good appearance when he presented himself to Mr. Rankin, the steward, that morning. His cheeks were rosy from a vigorous application of cold water and a brisk rubbing; and if he could rely upon his personal appearance for pleasing Captain Pratt, there seemed every chance that he would succeed.

During the time he had been at work the day before Mr. Rankin took every opportunity to instruct him in his new duties, and that morning the steward gave him another lesson.

It was barely finished when Captain Pratt came into the cabin, and one look at him made Tim so nervous that he forgot nearly everything he had been told to remember.

The captain’s eyes were red, his hands trembled, and he had all the appearance of a man who had been drinking hard the day before, and was not yet perfectly sober.

Tim had never had any experience with drinking men; but he did not need any explanation as to the causes of the captain’s appearance, and he involuntarily ducked his head when his employer passed him.

“Now, then, what are you skulking there for, you young rascal?” shouted Captain Pratt, as he fell, rather than seated himself, in his chair.

“I ain’t skulkin’, sir,” replied Tim, meekly.

“Don’t you answer me back,” cried the captain, in a rage, and seizing the milk pitcher as if he intended to throw it at the boy. “If you talk back to me I’ll show you what a rope’s end means.”

Tim actually trembled with fear, and kept a bright lookout, so that he might be ready to dodge in case the pitcher should be thrown, but did not venture to say a word.

“Now bring me my breakfast; and let’s see if you amount to anything, or if I only picked up a bit of waste timber when I got you.”

“What will you have, sir?” asked Tim, timidly, as he moved toward the captain’s chair.

A blow on the side of his head that sent him reeling half-way across the cabin served as a reply, and it was followed by a volley of oaths that frightened him.

“What do you mean by asking me what I’ll have before you tell me what is ready? Next time you try to wait upon a gentleman tell him what there is. Bring me some soda-water first.”

This was an order that he had not been provided for in the lessons given by Mr. Rankin, and Tim stood perfectly still, in frightened ignorance.

“Come, step lively, or I’ll get up and show you how,” roared the captain, his face flushing to a deeper red, as his rage rose to the point of cruelty.

“Please, sir, I don’t know where it is;” and Tim’s voice sounded very timid and piteous.

“Don’t know where it is, and been on board since yesterday! What do you suppose I hired you for? Take that, and that.”

Suiting the action to the words, the cheerful-tempered man threw first a knife and then a fork at the shrinking boy, and was about to follow them with a plate, when Mr. Rankin put into Tim’s hand the desired liquid.

Tim would rather have gone almost anywhere else than close to his employer just then; but the glass was in his hand, the captain was waiting for it, with a glare in his eye that boded no good if he delayed, and he placed it on the table.

“Now what kind of a breakfast have you got?” shouted Captain Pratt as he swallowed the liquid quickly.

It was a surprise to himself that he could remember anything just then, but he did manage to repeat the names of the different dishes, and to take the captain’s order.

Although he ran swiftly as possible from the table to the kitchen, and was served there with all haste, he did not succeed in pleasing the angry man.

“I want you to remember,” said that worthy, with a scowl, “that I ain’t in the habit of waiting for my meals. Another time, when you are so long, I shall give you a lesson you won’t forget.”

Tim was placing the dishes of food on the table when the captain spoke, and he was so startled by the angry words, when he thought he deserved pleasant ones, that he dropped a plate of potatoes.

He sprang instantly to pick them up, but Captain Pratt was out of his chair before he could reach them, and, with all his strength, he kicked Tim again and again. Then, without taking any heed of the prostrate boy, who might have been seriously injured, he seated himself at the table in perfect unconcern.

Mr. Rankin helped Tim on his feet, and, finding that no bones were broken—which was remarkable, considering the force with which the blows had been given—advised him to go on deck, promising that he would serve the captain.

“But I propose that the boy shall stay here,” roared the captain. “Do you think I’m going to let him sneak off every time I try to teach him anything?”

Tim struggled manfully to keep back the tears that would come in his eyes as he stood behind the captain’s chair; but they got the best of him, as did also the little, quick sobs.

The captain appeared to grow more cheerful as he ate; and although he called upon Tim for several articles, he managed to get along without striking any more blows, contenting himself by abusing the poor boy with his tongue.

It was a great relief to Tim when that meal was ended, and Mr. Rankin told him he could eat his own breakfast before clearing away the dishes.

Tim had not the slightest desire for food then; but he did want some for Tip. Hastily gathering up the bones from Captain Pratt’s plate, he ran with them to the bow, where Tip was straining and tugging at his rope as if he knew his master was having a hard time, and he wanted to be where he could help him.

Tim placed the bones in front of Tip, and then kneeling down, he put his arms around the dog’s neck as he poured out his woes in his ear, while Tip tried in every way to get at the tempting feast before him.

“I’m the miserablest boy in the world, Tip, an’ I don’t know what’s goin’ to become of us. You don’t know what a bad, ugly man Captain Pratt is, an’ I don’t believe I can stay here another day. But you think a good deal of me, don’t you, Tip? an’ you’d help me if you could, wouldn’t you?”

The dog had more sympathy with the bones just then than he had with his almost heart-broken master, and Tim, who dared not stay away too long from the cabin, was obliged to let him partake of the feast at last.

When Tim returned from feeding the dog Mr. Rankin said all he could to prevent him from becoming discouraged on the first day of service; but he concluded with these words:

“I can’t advise you to stay here any longer than you can help, for you ain’t stout enough to bear what you’ll have to take from the captain. It’ll be hard work to get off, for he always looks sharp after new boys, so they sha’n’t run away; but when we get back here again you’d better make up your mind to show your heels.”

These words frightened Tim almost as much as what the captain had said to him, for he had never thought but that he could leave whenever he wanted to. Now he felt doubly wretched, for he realized that he was as much a captive as he had ever been when he lived with Captain Babbige, whose blows were not nearly as severe as this new master’s.

The Pride of the Wave made but two trips a week, and each one occupied about two days and a half. This second day after Tim had come on board was the time of her sailing, and everything was in such a state of confusion that no one had any time to notice the sad little boy, who ran forward to pet his dog whenever his work would permit of such loving act.

Among his duties was that of answering the captain’s bell, and once, when he returned from a visit to Tip, Mr. Rankin told him, with evident fear, that it had been nearly five minutes since he was summoned to the wheel-house.

While the steward was speaking the bell rung again with an angry peal that told that the party at the other end was in anything but a pleasant mood. It did not take Tim many seconds to run to the wheel-house, and when he arrived there, breathless and in fear, Captain Pratt met him at the door.

“So the lesson I gave you this morning wasn’t enough, eh?” cried the angry man, as he seized Tim by the collar and actually lifted him from his feet. “I’ll teach you to attend to business, and not try to come any odds over me.”

Captain Pratt had a stout piece of rope in one hand, and as he held Tim by the other, nearly choking him, he showered heavy blows upon the poor boy’s back and legs till his arm fairly ached.

“Now see if you will remember that!” he cried, as he released his hold on Tim’s collar, and the poor child rolled upon the deck almost helpless.

Tim had fallen because the hold on his neck had been so suddenly released, rather than on account of the beating; and when he struggled to his feet, smarting from the blows, the captain said to him:

“Now bring me a pitcher of ice-water, and see that you’re back in five minutes, or you’ll get the same dose over again.”

Tim limped away, his back and legs feeling as if they had been bathed in fire, and each inch of skin ached and smarted as it never had done from the worst whipping Captain Babbige or Aunt Betsey had favored him with. He entered the cabin with eyes swollen from unshed tears, and sobs choking his breath, but with such a sense of injury in his heart that he made no other sign of suffering.

Mr. Rankin was too familiar with Captain Pratt’s methods of dealing with boys to be obliged to ask Tim any questions; but he said, as the boy got the water:

“Try to keep a stiff upper lip, lad, and you’ll come out all right.”

Tim could not trust himself to speak, for he knew he should cry if he did; and he carried the water to the wheel-house, going directly from there to Tip.

The dog leaped up on him when his master came where he was, as if he wanted a frolic; but Tim said, as he threw himself on the deck beside him:

“Don’t, Tip, don’t play now; I feel more like dyin’. You think it’s awful hard to stay here; but it’s twice as hard on me, ’cause the captain whips me every chance he gets.”

Tip knew from his master’s actions that something was wrong, and he licked the face that was drawn with deep lines of pain so lovingly that Tim’s tears came despite his will.

He was lying by Tip’s side, moaning and crying, when old black Mose, the cook, was attracted to the spot by his sounds of suffering.

“Wha-wha-wha’s de matter, honey? Wha’ yer takin’ on so powerful ’bout?”

Tim paid no attention to the question, repeated several times, nor did he appear to feel the huge black hand laid so tenderly on his head.

“Wha’s de matter, honey? Has Cap’en Pratt been eddercaten’ of yer?” Then, without waiting for a reply, he continued: “Now, don’ take on so, honey. Come inter de kitchen wid ole Mose, an’ let him soothe ye up a little. Come, honey, come wid me, an’ bring de dorg wid yer.”

While he spoke the old colored man was untying the rope which fastened Tip, for he knew the boy would follow wherever the dog was led. And in that he was right, for when Tip went toward the little box Mose called a kitchen he followed almost unconsciously.

Once inside the place where the old negro was chief, Mose took his jacket off, and bathed the ugly-looking black-and-blue marks which had been left by the rope, talking to the boy in his peculiar dialect as he did so, soothing the wounds on his heart as he treated those on his body.

“Now, don’ feel bad, honey; it’s only a way Cap’en Pratt has got, an’ you must git used to it, shuah. Don’t let him fret yer, but keep right on about yer work jest as ef yer didn’t notice him like.”

Mose bathed the wounds, and gave Tip such a feast as he had not had for many a day; and when it was done Tim said to him:

“You’re awful good, you are; but I’m afraid the captain will make you sorry for it. He don’t seem to like me, an’ he may get mad ’cause you’ve helped me.”

“Bress yer, chile, what you s’pose ole Mose keers fur him ef he does git mad? The cap’en kin rave an’ rave, but dis nigger don’ mind him more’n ef he was de souf wind, what carn’t do nobody any harm.”

“But—” Tim began to say, earnestly.

“Never mind ’bout any buts, honey. Yer fixed all right now, an’ you go down in de cabin an’ go ter work like a man; ole Mose’ll keep keer ob de dorg.”

Tim knew he had already been away from his post of duty too long, and, leaving Tip in the negro’s kindly care, he went into the cabin.

Chapter VI.
TIM MAKES AN ACQUAINTANCE.

When Tim left old Mose’s kitchen it was nearly time for the steamer to start on her regular trip, and the passengers were coming on board quite fast.

The bustle and excitement which always attend the sailing of steamers, even though the trip be a short one, were all so new and strange to Tim that he forgot his own troubles in watching the scene around him. He saw Mr. Rankin near the kitchen, and was told by him that he could remain on deck until the captain should ring his bell, when he would let him know of it.

Therefore Tim had plenty of time in which to take in all the details of the interesting scene. The deck-hands were scurrying to and fro, wheeling in freight or baggage on funny little trucks with very small wheels and very long handles; passengers were running around excitedly, as if they thought they ought to attend to matters which did not concern them; newsboys were crying the latest editions of the papers; old women were trying to sell fruit that did not look very fresh, and everything appeared to be in the greatest confusion.

While Tim was leaning on the after-rail of the main-deck his attention was attracted by a very small boy, who was trying to get himself and a large valise on board at the same time. The valise was several sizes too large for the boy, and some one of the four corners would persist in hitting against his legs each time he stepped, and then swinging around, would almost throw him off his feet.

THE SMALL PASSENGER WITH THE LARGE VALISE

Twice the boy started to go on board, and each time the valise grew unruly, frightening him from continuing the attempt lest he should be thrown into the water. Then he stood still and gazed longingly at the plank upon which he did not dare to venture.

It was a comical sight, and Tim laughed at it until he saw the boy was really in distress, when he started to aid him.

“Let me help you carry your valise,” he said to the small passenger, as he darted across the narrow plank and took hold of one side of the offending baggage. “Two can lug it better’n one.”

The boy looked up as if surprised that a stranger should offer to help him, and then gave up fully one-half the burden to this welcome lad. This time the journey was made successfully; and as the valise was deposited on the steamer’s deck the little passenger gave vent to a deep sigh of relief.

“So much done,” he said, in a satisfied way, as he took off his hat and wiped his forehead with a handkerchief that did not look much larger than a postage-stamp. “Where are you goin’?” he then asked, turning to Tim.

“Why, I ain’t goin’ nowhere,” replied the captain’s boy, not fully understanding the other’s question.

“Oh!”—and the boy’s face grew troubled—“I thought maybe you was goin’ in the boat.”

“So I am,” answered Tim, now understanding the question. “I work here.”

“Now, that’s nice;” and the little fellow sat down on his valise contentedly.

“You may think so; but if you knew Captain Pratt you’d talk different.”

“Why?”

“Perhaps you’ll find out sometime if you come on this boat much; but I guess I’d better not tell you.”

The boy was silent for a moment, as if he was trying to understand what Tim meant, and then he said, abruptly:

“Look here, I live down on Minchin’s Island, an’ I come up here to see my aunt. I’m goin’ home on this boat, an’ I want you to show me where I can get a ticket. If you will I’ll show you lots of things I’ve got in this valise.”

“I don’t know where it is myself, ’cause I ain’t been on the boat only two days; but if you’ll wait here I’ll go an’ ask the cook.”

The boy nodded his head, as if to say that he would wait any reasonable length of time, and Tim started off to gain the desired information of old Mose.

In a few moments he returned, and taking his new acquaintance by the hand, would have led him to the clerk’s office at once, had not the young party pulled back in evident alarm.

“We’ve got to take the valise with us, ’cause somebody might steal it, an’ there’s two bundles of torpedoes, a whole bunch of fire-crackers, an’ a heap of little sky-rockets in it.”

Tim understood at once, and, with a serious look on his face, as he thought of the great risk he came near running, took hold of one of the handles of the valise; the boy grasped the other, and the two marched up to the clerk’s office. There, after some little discussion, the ticket was purchased, and the two retired to a more secluded spot for conversation.

“What’s your name?” the boy asked of Tim. “Mine’s Bobby Tucker.”

Tim gave the desired information, and then asked in turn:

“How long have you been up here?”

“’Most a whole week; an’ I’ve had the boss time. I had five dollars an’ twenty cents that I earned all myself, an’ I’ve got ’most half a dollar left. Let’s go out on the wharf an’ buy something.”

There was no chance that Tim would object to any such brilliant idea, and the valise was left with old Mose for safekeeping. Once on the wharf, both they and the apple-women were very busy for five minutes, during which time they—or rather, Bobby—bought fruit and candies enough to make both of them as contented as a boy could hope to be.

Luckily for Tim he got on the steamer again just as one of the waiters came to tell him that the captain had rung for him, and he lost no time in making his way to the wheel-house. He had the good-fortune to get there as quickly as Captain Pratt thought he ought to have done, and then got his employer’s coat from his state-room as he was ordered.

After that he went back to his newly-made friend, who was awaiting his return with considerable impatience, for he did not feel exactly certain that his valise with its precious contents was perfectly safe.

Tim took him to the cook-room, and while there showed him “one of the finest dogs in the country,” which he led back to his old quarters, so that he would be out of the way at dinner-time.

At first Bobby was not inclined to look upon Tip either as a beautiful or a valuable animal; but Tim sounded his pet’s praises so loudly that Bobby could hardly prevent himself from being convinced, even though appearances were so decidedly against his companion’s words.

Among other stories which Tim related, as showing that Tip was one of the most intelligent of his species, was the incident of his finding the cow so suddenly for Sam Simpson, which pleased Bobby greatly, and he said, in a wise tone both of praise and blame:

“He looks like a good dog, an’ he acts like a good dog; but ’pears to me his legs is kinder short if you wanted to make him run after a bear.”

“I never tried to make him do that, ’cause we don’t have bears up where I come from. Are there any where you live?”

“Well, I never saw any, an’ father says there ain’t any; but I’ve heard ’em in the woods, an’ I know they was bears, ’cause they made such an awful noise. You come down to see me some time, an’ bring the dog with you, an’ we’ll kill some.”

Tim was perfectly sure that Tip was able to kill any number of bears, and he told his companion so, adding that he hardly thought he could get away from the steamer long enough to make any kind of a visit; but Bobby felt sure it could be arranged somehow.

While they had been talking about Tip the boat had started, but, among the freight as they were, they did not know it until the pitching of the steamer as she left the harbor told that some change had been and was being made in their position.

Running hastily out to the rail, where they expected to see the wharf, with its bustling crowd of hucksters and passengers, they saw to their astonishment the green, rolling billows of the ocean. To Bobby, who lived on an island, the sea was no new sight, and his astonishment was only occasioned by the fact that the steamer had left the dock; but to Tim, who had never seen a body of water larger than the river in Selman, the scene was one that filled him with the greatest wonder.

He remained by the rail, only able to look over the top of it by standing on his toes, and gazed on the sea until Bobby asked, impatiently:

“What’s the matter? Ain’t sick, are yer?”

Until that question was asked Tim had not thought of such a thing as being sea-sick; but the moment Bobby spoke it seemed as if the entire appearance of the water changed. Instead of looking grand and beautiful it began to have a sidelong motion, and to rise up and down in an uncomfortable way.

“No, I ain’t sick,” he said to Bobby, “but I feel kinder queer.”

“That’s it! that’s it!” cried Bobby, eagerly; “that’s the way folks begin when they’re goin’ to be awful sick.”

Tim looked up in despair. Each succeeding motion of the boat made him feel worse, and a very uncomfortable sensation in the region of his stomach was rapidly adding to his terror.

“What shall I do?” he asked, in a piteous whisper.

“Go to bed, an’ you’ll be all right in the mornin’. Where’s your berth?”

Tim made a motion toward the forecastle, but did not trust himself to speak. His stomach was already in too queer a condition to permit of words.

“I’ll go down with you, an’ see that you’re all right,” said Bobby, sagely. “I’m used to goin’ fishin’ with father, an’ I won’t be sick.”

Tim was about to follow his friend’s suggestion, when the horrible thought occurred to him of what the result might be in case Captain Pratt knew of his being in bed in the daytime, and he went to ask advice of old Mose.

But one glance at his pale face and quivering lips was needed to show the old negro that the captain’s boy was sea-sick, and before Tim could attempt to speak he said:

“Am yer sick, honey? There’s only one way fur yer to do, an’ that’s to turn right in an’ wrastle it out. Go right to yer bunk, an’ I’ll ’form Mr. Rankin what ails you.”

This advice, although it was the same as that given by Bobby, was followed at once, because it came from a semi-official source, and in a few moments afterward Tim was groaning in his berth, while Bobby sat by his side, and tried to persuade him to partake of some of the candy he had bought just before leaving port.

Tim refused the offering, and for the first time in his life looked upon candy as the stickiest kind of a fraud. He felt as though the kindest thing any one could do would be to throw him overboard in the midst of that treacherous sea which was causing him so much internal commotion.

He had been in his berth about an hour, although it seemed to him fully a week, when Mr. Rankin came into the forecastle, and told him that Captain Pratt had given positive and angrily issued orders that he be brought on deck.

A moment before, Tim would have thought it impossible for him to move, and felt that he would not be frightened by a dozen Captain Pratts; but the instant Mr. Rankin spoke, the thoughts of that whipping, the smart of which could still be felt, was sufficient to give him strength to make the attempt.

Staggering to his feet, encouraged by the kind-hearted steward, who pitied him sincerely, he crawled up the narrow companion-way, shuddering as he went, and catching his breath in sickness and fear at each lurch of the steamer.

Bobby, who was awed into silence by the fear of the captain which he saw plainly written on the faces of Mr. Rankin and Tim, would have gone with his friend at least a portion of the way, if Tim had not motioned him back. If he was to be whipped for being sick, he very much preferred that his new friend should not witness the punishment.

It was with the greatest difficulty he managed to keep on his feet as he staggered along the deck to the wheel-house, and just as he reached there, and had opened the door, a sudden lurch of the steamer sent him spinning into the room headlong.

It was unfortunate that Captain Pratt was sitting directly opposite the door, smoking, for he was directly in the way of Tim when the steamer shot him into the wheel-house like a stone from a sling, and the boy’s head struck with no gentle force full on the chest of his irritable employer.

The mildest-mannered man would have been provoked if a boy, even no larger than Tim, had been thrown at him in this way, and Captain Pratt, always ill-tempered, had all his ire aroused by the blow that very nearly took away his breath.

As soon as he recovered from the effects of the blow he seized Tim, who had continued on his flight until he landed, a forlorn little specimen, in one corner of the room, and shook him as a cat shakes a mouse after she has had a long chase to catch him.

“Is this the way you try to get even with me?” cried the angry man, slapping Tim first on one side of the head and then on the other with a force that made his teeth chatter. “What do you mean by such actions? Answer me! What do you mean?”

“I don’t mean anything,” said the boy, piteously. “I was comin’ in all right, when the boat tipped up, an’ I slid right along. I was sea-sick, an’ I couldn’t help it.”

“I’ll show you how to get over your sea-sickness, and you won’t forget how it’s done, either;” and as the captain spoke he resumed his cheerful occupation of slapping Tim’s face. “You think I am going to have any lubbers around here sick, do you?”

“I can’t help it, sir,” moaned Tim, who had by this time lost all feeling of nausea in the pain caused by the blows.

“Then I’ll help it for you,” roared the captain, and he flogged Tim until he thought he had been punished enough to cure him.

“Now see if that will help you,” he said, savagely, as he stood Tim on his feet with a force that caused him to bite his tongue. “Keep on deck now, and let me see you every ten minutes. If you so much as think of laying down I’ll give you such a taste of the rope’s end that you’ll think all this was only fooling.”

It seemed to Tim as if either the flogging or the sickness would have been sufficient alone, but to have both filled his heart with all the sadness and grief it could well contain.

He went below, where Bobby was waiting for him, and the sight of his tear-filled eyes, and face red with the marks of the whipping, told the young gentleman from Minchin’s Island that there were very many positions in the world more pleasant than that of captain’s boy on board the Pride of the Wave.

“What is the matter, Tim?” he asked, in a half-whisper.

“Nothin’,” was the sobbing reply; and then the boy ran to the only living thing he knew who would sympathize with him in his grief.

Bobby stood back in astonishment as he saw Tim lie down by the side of that wonderful hunting dog, and, pouring out his grief in indistinct words, sob and cry in deepest distress.

“What is the matter, Tim? Don’t cry so, but tell me what ails you.”

It was some time before Tim would speak; but when once he did open his heart to his newly-made friend he told the entire story from the time he ran away from Captain Babbige’s house up to the last whipping he had received. When he had concluded he said, in the most sorrowful tone:

“I jest wish I was dead, Bobby; for there don’t seem to be anybody in all this great big world who wants to have me ’round, ’less it is to lick me when they ain’t got nothin’ else to do.”

“I wouldn’t stand it, Tim, that’s what I wouldn’t do,” said Bobby, indignantly. “I’d jest leave this old boat the very first time she stops.”

But Tim had more wisdom now than he had the day he ran away from Captain Babbige, and he said, mournfully:

“Where could I go if I did run away again? Nobody wants me an’ Tip, an’ we’ve got to have somethin’ to eat.”

This way of putting the matter rather confused Bobby; he had never known what it was to be without a home, and Tim’s lonely position in the world opened his eyes to a new phase of life.

“I’ll tell you what you can do: you can come to my house, an’ stay jest as long as you want to.”

Tim shook his head; he remembered the invitation given by Sam Simpson, and how it had been seconded by his parents, and he did not care for more of the same experience.

“But you can’t stay here an’ let Captain Pratt knock you ’round.”

Tim assented to this; but still he did not see how he could prevent it, unless he was willing to risk suffering in another form.

“I s’pose I’ll have to go up-stairs an’ show the captain that I ain’t in bed,” he said, as a shudder of sea-sickness came over him again. “It must be as much as ten minutes since I was there.”

“I wouldn’t go,” said Bobby, stoutly; “I wouldn’t let him think I was afraid of him.”

“But I am afraid of him, an’ so would you be if he was to beat you once the way he has me;” and then he started for the deck again.

This time he did not attempt to enter the wheel-house, but stood by the rail outside, where the captain could see him, and leaned over the side until it seemed to him that everything he had eaten for the past month was thrown to the fishes.

It was impossible for him to have waited on the captain at the table that day, even if he had been called upon so to do; but Mr. Rankin had told him that he need not come into the cabin until he had recovered, and he was truly thankful for that permission to remain away, as he hoped next day to be himself again.

The steamer had sailed at eleven o’clock in the forenoon, and by two o’clock Tim was so sick that the very worst punishment Captain Pratt could have devised would not have troubled him in the least.

The vessel tossed and plunged as if she were bent on going to the bottom of the sea at the first opportunity, and Tim, in his berth, with the faithful Bobby at his side trying to cheer and comfort him, felt that he would not raise his hand to help himself even though he knew the Pride of the Wave was foundering.

Chapter VII.
TIP’S HURRIED LANDING.

During the remainder of that day, and all the night, Tim lay in his berth wondering why it was he did not die, since he was so sick, and expecting each moment that the steamer would go to the bottom. He almost forgot Tip, save once or twice when he asked Bobby to see whether the dog was feeling as badly as he was; and when he was told that Tip was apparently enjoying very good health, he felt a sense of injury because his pet did not share his sickness with him.

Bobby remained with him nearly all the afternoon; but toward night his newly-formed friendship was not strong enough to keep him in the ill-smelling place, and he went on deck to enjoy what was to him simply a glorious sail.

When Tim awakened on the following morning—for he did get some sleep that night—the steamer was yet pitching around wildly as though she were mad, but he had recovered from his sickness, and felt weak and hungry.

He looked as pale as though he had been confined to his bed for a week, and he imagined he was so thin that the sun would shine right through him; but in this he was mistaken.

Of course his first visit was to Tip, and after he had petted him to his heart’s content, and given him a hearty breakfast, thanks to old Mose’s generosity, he went below to report to Mr. Rankin for duty.

There was plenty of work to be done; and now that he had “paid his tribute to the sea,” the steward showed that while he could be kind when there was reason for it, he also believed in making boys useful.

Tim carried dishes, cleaned knives, ran with cups of hot coffee or tea at imminent danger of scalding himself, until all the passengers had breakfasted, and then for at least an hour Captain Pratt kept him going from the wheel-house to the cabin, and from the cabin to the wheel-house, on one errand or another, until he thought he was sufficiently exercised.

All this time he had not once caught a glimpse of his friend Bobby Tucker, nor, indeed, had he had time to look for him. He had asked old Mose where Minchin’s Island was, and when the steamer would arrive there; but although Mose could give him very little geographical information, he knew certainly that the Pride of the Wave was due at the island about noon.

Tim was impatient to get through with his work, so that he could talk with Bobby a few moments, and when Mr. Rankin told him that he was at liberty until dinner-time, he went at once to Tip’s narrow quarters, believing he would find the boy from Minchin’s Island there.

Nor was he mistaken, for there was Bobby examining the dog very carefully, measuring his legs and the stump of his tail, in order that he might give accurate information regarding him to his friends at home.

Although the boys were very glad to see each other, the meeting was not a particularly affectionate one.

“Hello, Bob!” cried Tim; and Bobby answered,

“Hello, Tim!”

“What are you doin’ to Tip?”

“I was only kinder lookin’ him over, to see if he was all right for the bears when he an’ you come down to see me.”

“Ah, he can take care of the bears fast enough, but I’m afraid he won’t get down to your house.”

“Oh yes, he will,” was the confident reply. “The very next time the Pride comes to the island I’m goin’ to get father to make the captain let you come ashore, an’ father’s one of the selectmen, so I guess Captain Pratt can’t help hisself.”

The idea that Bobby’s father was one of the town officials appeared to put the matter in a different light, and Tim began to have great hopes that the visit might really be made.

Then the chance of catching a bear, or of getting near enough for Tip to catch one, was discussed. Tip was unfastened in order that all his beautiful proportions might be seen more distinctly, and the boys grew so excited over the subject that they forgot the flight of time, until the steamer’s whistle aroused them from thoughts of bear-killing.

“Gracious!” exclaimed Bobby, “here we’ve got home, an’ I’d forgotten we was so near.”

“Was it Minchin’s Island the boat was whistlin’ for?”

“Yes. That’s the first place she stops at after she leaves the city. Come, quick, so’s we can get my valise out of the kitchen.”

Bobby’s valise with its precious contents was still in the care of Mose, its owner not having looked after it more than once each hour, and now he was very uneasy lest he should not be able to get it in time.

Tim was so excited by his companion’s fears that he fastened Tip as quickly as possible, not noticing in his haste that the knot was only half tied, and could easily be unloosened.

The valise, with apparently as much in it as when it was intrusted to the old darkey’s care, was soon in Bobby’s possession, and the two boys went on the upper deck, from which the landing was to be made.

Here, standing by the rail, Bobby pointed out the various objects of interest on the island, not forgetting the woods in which he was positive Tip would one day roam in search of the ferocious bear.

Captain Pratt was standing near them, but he was so much engaged in giving orders for the proper landing of the boat that he did not notice his cabin boy, who was breaking one of the rules of the steamer by loitering on that deck.

The boat was still quite a distance from the shore, and Bobby was pointing out his father’s house when they heard a furious barking, and before they could turn Tip was jumping up around them. He had found no difficulty in escaping from the half-tied rope, and after that was done it was an easy matter for him to find his young master.

Captain Pratt had heard Tip’s joyful greeting also, and as he turned to see the cause of it, the dog, who was in such high spirits at having escaped from his imprisonment that he was ready to show his good-will for every one, left the boys and fawned upon the captain as if he was his best friend.

Captain Pratt showed very little consideration for the dog, even while he thought he belonged to one of the passengers, and gave him such a kick as sent him half the length of the deck, changing his note of joy to deep yelps of pain.

The place in which Tip had been confined was anything but a clean one, and, as a natural consequence, when he jumped upon the captain he left the muddy imprints of his paws on the clean blue clothes in which the commander of the Pride of the Wave had that day arrayed himself.

“Whose dog is that?” roared the captain, as he surveyed the damage done.

“He’s mine,” answered Tim, who, at the first blow struck his pet, had jumped toward the poor brute and taken him to his bosom to soothe him.

Then it was that the captain first saw his cabin-boy on the forbidden ground of the upper deck, and it is positive that if he had had the time just then he would have given him a painful intimation of the mistake he had made. As it was, he walked up to Tim quickly, seized poor Tip by the neck, and flung him as far as possible into the water.

“Now you go below,” he said, in a low, angry tone, to Tim, “and after we make this landing I’ll settle with you.”

Tim paid no more attention to the captain’s words than if they had been uttered by a boy smaller than himself, but rushed frantically to the rail as if he was about to jump after his pet.

The steamer was already so near the wharf that Captain Pratt had no time to see if his order was obeyed, but was obliged to give all his attention to the management of the boat.

It was fortunate for Tip that the captain was very angry when he threw him into the water, since he, using all his strength, had tossed him so far from the steamer’s side that he was in no danger of being drawn under the wheel, as would have been the case had less vigor been used in the cruel deed.

Tip acted like a very sensible dog under the circumstances—he held his head up and struck out boldly for the shore, urged on by a crowd of boys on the wharf.

Tim was almost frantic with grief, believing his pet was perishing before his eyes, and he powerless to save him. It is quite possible that he would have obeyed his first impulse and leaped into the water to try to save Tip, if a passenger had not taken a firm hold of him.

“It’s a wicked shame! I’d jest like to take that captain an’ do to him jest as he has done to Tip; an’ he such a nice bear dog too!” said Bobby, who stood by Tim’s side watching Tip’s battle for life.

“Do you s’pose he’ll drown?” asked Tim, the great tear-drops rolling down his cheeks.

“I dunno,” was the cautious reply. “It seems to me his legs is rather short for swimmin’ very far; an’ then, you see, he ain’t got any tail to steer hisself by.”

Tim was just giving way to a fresh outburst of grief at these words, which seemed to sound Tip’s death-knell, when a gentleman said:

“There isn’t the slightest danger of his drowning. It will take him some time to reach the shore, for he’s not swimming directly toward it; but he’ll come out all right, and it won’t do him the least harm.”

“An’ jest as soon as I get ashore I’ll run round an’ call him in, an’ bring him to you,” said Bobby, anxious to do something toward saving the life of an animal as valuable as he believed Tip to be.

The dog was yet some distance from the shore when the boat was made fast to the wharf, and Bobby rushed on shore, going toward the point where Tip must land, wholly regardless of his parents, who were waiting to greet him.

Tim started to follow him, bent on saving his pet and forgetting that there was such a person in the world as Captain Pratt, when he felt a heavy hand laid on his shoulder.

“I thought I told you to go below!” said an angry voice, and, looking up, Tim saw it was the captain who was detaining him. “If you so much as make a motion to go on shore I’ll whip you within an inch of your life!”

Then, without giving him an opportunity to disobey, the same heavy hand pushed him back on the deck, and Mr. Rankin led him forcibly below.

“I won’t stay here! I won’t go down-stairs an’ leave Tip there to drown!” cried Tim, passionately. “It’s awful wicked, an’ I won’t do it!”

“Listen to me, Tim,” said Mr. Rankin, kindly but firmly. “There is no possible chance that your dog will drown, and you must come below, for it is the captain’s orders.”

“But I must go an’ get him,” wailed Tim.

“Suppose you could get him before we leave the dock, which you can’t, and suppose you should get him aboard without the captain’s seeing you, which is an impossibility, what would be the result? Captain Pratt would throw him overboard after we got out to sea again, and then he would be sure to drown.”

Tim knew the steward’s reasoning was correct, and yet he refused to be comforted. He was led below despite his struggles, but when he reached the main-deck he ran to the rail, from where he could see all that was going on in the water.

“Do you s’pose he will get ashore all right?” Tim asked of Mr. Rankin, as he watched Tip’s exertions to save himself.

“Of course he will; he’s almost there now, and in five minutes more he’ll be just as safe as ever, and a good deal cleaner.”

By this time the freight for the island had been landed, and the steamer was already leaving the wharf. Tim was in an agony of fear lest he should be obliged to depart without assuring himself that Tip was a saved dog.

But in order that the steamer should be put on her course again it was necessary to back her for some distance, and that was a bit of good luck for Tim, since they moved in the direction taken by Tip.

Tim could see Bobby, at the extreme point of land that jutted out into the sea, urging the dog to increased exertion, and aided by all the boys who were on the wharf at the time Tip was thrown overboard, as well as by a number of others who had learned of the excitement by seeing Bobby as he ran around the shore.

Just as the steamer’s paddle-wheels ceased to force her back, and began to urge her in the opposite direction, Tip’s short legs touched the bottom, and in another instant Bobby was holding him, all wet and dripping, high up in the air, while he executed a sort of triumphant war-dance before Tim’s delighted gaze.

Tim stood looking with his very heart in his eyes as the Pride of the Wave carried him farther and farther from the only friend he had in the world, and when he saw Tip run along the beach and shake himself he laughed from very joy.

But in another instant he understood that, if the dog was safe, he was being separated from him very rapidly.

“I sha’n’t see him ever again in this life,” he wailed, “an’ he is the only feller that cares anything about me.”

Then he ran to the little hole which had served Tip as a state-room, and there gave vent to his sorrow in passionate weeping.

Chapter VIII.
MINCHIN’S ISLAND.

When Tim had so far recovered from his grief as to present himself for work again, Minchin’s Island was far astern, and the voyage drawing rapidly to an end.

Those who were friendly to the boy thought the wisest and kindest course to pursue was to say nothing about poor Tip; and as those who were not friendly did not speak of him, Tim got on without giving way to his grief in public. Captain Pratt seemed to have forgotten his threat of punishing Tim for venturing on the upper deck, or he may have thought best to wait till the end of the trip, for he said nothing to the boy, which was far more kind than he had any idea of being.

At the different landings Tim did not have curiosity enough to look at the towns, but worked as hard as he could in order to prevent thinking about poor Tip. Captain Pratt summoned him to the wheel-house several times, and whenever he went there he felt certain he was to receive the promised whipping; but he was mistaken, for, after ordering him to do some trifling work, the captain paid no attention to him.

At about six o’clock on the afternoon of that day the steamer was made fast to the wharf at Bedlow, and the trip was ended.

After the work of cleaning the cabin was done Mr. Rankin said:

“You can go ashore and see the town, if you want to; but be back by nine o’clock.”

Tim shook his head; he had no desire to see anything new, since Tip was not there to enjoy the sights with him, and he crept off to his dirty berth in the forecastle, where he cried himself to sleep.

On the next morning he succeeded in supplying the captain’s wants at the table as quickly as that gentleman thought proper, and yet no mention was made of the events of the previous day.

The steamer was to leave Bedlow on her return trip at noon, and Tim took no interest in the bustle and excitement on the wharf, save that each succeeding moment was one less in the time that must elapse before he saw Tip again.

As the steamer started his spirits rose, and he watched her course carefully, fretting at the time spent at each landing, content only when she was going at regular speed toward Minchin’s Island and Tip.

He had formed no plan as to what he should do when he got there. He knew that Mr. Rankin’s advice that Tip be left there was good, and should be followed, but he could not make up his mind to do so. Parting with Tip seemed like parting with a portion of his very life, and he could not bring himself to say that he would leave this his only friend, no matter how short the time.

It was nearly nightfall when the steamer neared Minchin’s Island, and Tim was as far in the bow as he could get on the main-deck, in order that he might catch the first glimpse of Tip, for he felt sure Bobby would bring him to the wharf.

At last he could distinctly see the different objects on the wharf, and his heart sunk when he failed to see any one who at all resembled Bobby. He looked eagerly among the crowd assembled, and could not even see one boy, when on the day before there had been at least twenty there. He was at a loss to account for this cruelty on Bobby’s part. He knew the dog had been saved, for he had surely seen him held aloft in Bob’s arms, and a cruel suspicion came into his mind that perhaps the boy was keeping out of sight with the intention of claiming Tip as his own.

The boat arrived at the wharf, and was made fast. Not a single boy or dog could be seen.

Tim’s heart was full to bursting, and as he leaned against the rail he thought it was not possible for greater trouble to come to him, since he was denied even a sight of Tip.

Now he would willingly have promised that the dog should remain with Bobby, if by making such promise he could see and hug him each time the boat arrived at that place.

So absorbed was he with his grief, caused by what looked very like an act of perfidy on Bobby’s part, that he failed to notice what several of the employés on the steamer saw and wondered at. A man had called Captain Pratt on shore, and was talking to him in such a manner as to make him angry. So excited was he that he paid no attention to the fact that the steamer was ready to continue the trip, and that every one waited for him.

Tim saw nothing of all this; but when the captain called loudly to him he started, as if he had been caught in wrongdoing.

“Come ashore here!” cried the captain, much as if he was angry with himself for giving such an order.

Tim walked on to the wharf in a perfect maze of surprise, and when he went near his employer his wonder was increased by hearing that gentleman say to the one he had been talking with, “Here’s the boy, and I wish you joy of him;” and then to see him go quickly on board the steamer.

Before Tim had time to recover from his surprise the steamer had started, and as she was leaving the wharf he was almost taken off his feet by some soft substance that hit him on the legs.

It did not take him many seconds to discover that this substance which had struck him so suddenly was his own little bob-tailed Tip, and then he knelt right down on the wharf and hugged him desperately, giving no heed to anything save the happy fact that he had his pet to himself once more.

Some time before he had finished hugging and kissing Tip a noisy crowd of boys emerged from behind one of the freight sheds, where they had evidently been in hiding, and gave him such a welcome to Minchin’s Island as he never expected to receive anywhere.

Bobby was among the number, of course, and it was so long before he could calm himself down sufficiently to explain the meaning of all the strange occurrences, that Tim was left some time in doubt as to whether he had really gotten away from the savage Captain Pratt, or if it was all a pleasant dream, from which he would awake to receive the promised flogging.

When Bobby did sober down sufficiently to talk understandingly, Tim learned that, owing to his friend’s pleading and tales of how he had been abused, Mr. Tucker had promised that he would induce Captain Pratt to let the boy come ashore at Minchin’s Island, where he should have a home for a time at least.

Relying on that promise, Bobby had gathered all the boys of the town together to give Tim a proper welcome, and all had been hidden behind the shed when the steamer came in, so that the surprise should be as great as possible. By what means Mr. Tucker had persuaded Captain Pratt to part with the cabin-boy he was “breaking in” no one knew, and no one seemed to care, since it had been so successfully accomplished.

When Bobby looked around for his father, to introduce to him the boy for whom he had done so much, he was nowhere to be seen, and Bobby said, in apology:

“I s’pose he thought we would want to talk a good deal, an’ so he went off; but we’ll see him when we get home.”

“But am I really goin’ to live with you?” asked Tim, hardly able to believe the good-fortune that had come to him so suddenly.

“You’re goin’ to live with me a good while, anyhow, an’ I guess for all the time; but father didn’t say.” Then, as the boys started up the wharf, he added, eagerly, “We’re goin’ over to Bill Thompson’s father’s vessel now. We’ve got some chowder, an’ Bill’s father said we could go over there an’ have supper; so we’re goin’ to show you one of the best times you ever had.”

The countenance of all the boys told that some big time was near, and more especially was that the case with Bill Thompson. By his very manner he showed that he considered himself of the greatest importance in that party, and walked on in advance, almost unable to contain himself because of his excessive dignity. Instead of going up into the little town, Bill led the way around the shore; and as the boys reached the headland where Tip had first touched the land of Minchin’s Island, Bobby pointed to a small fishing schooner that lay at anchor a short distance from the shore.

Then the other boys began to tell about the supper and the good time generally, until it was impossible to distinguish one word; but Bill Thompson walked on in silence, looking neither to the right nor the left. It was enough for him that he was the one on whom the pleasure depended, since it was to take place on his father’s vessel, and he could not lower his dignity by talking.

A dory hauled up on the beach served to convey the party to the schooner, and once there, Bill Thompson led the way to the cabin, where every preparation had been made for the feast of welcome.

The table, formed by letting down a shelf from the side of the cabin, was large enough to accommodate half of the party, and was laid with every variety of crockery and cutlery such as would be likely to be found on board a fishing vessel. The only food on the table was crackers; but a huge pot, which was bubbling and steaming in a contented sort of way on the stove, told that there was enough to satisfy the wants of the hungriest boy there.

“Set right down to the table, Tim,” said Bill, unbending from his dignity a little, “an’ the rest of us will do the work; you’re the company, you know.”

Tim took the place of honor—the only armchair in the cabin—and was more than gratified to find that a seat had been placed close beside him for Tip, who had already jumped on it, sitting there looking as wise and hungry as a dog could look.

The entire boy portion of the population of Minchin’s Island had worked hard and earnestly to prepare this feast of welcome, and the result of their labors was the chowder, which was being served by the means of a cocoa-nut shell dipper, with a large hole in the side, that somewhat retarded the progress.

At last all were served, and those who could not find places at the table were seated on the sides of the berths, on trunks, fishing-tackle, or any available space, and the feast was begun.

Tip had his share in a saucer, and he ate it in as dignified a manner as the best-behaved dog could have done.

For several moments all gave their undivided attention to the chowder, which was not exactly as good as they were accustomed to at home, but which, being the product of their own labor, tasted better than anything they had ever eaten before.

Especially to Tim was it good, because of the spirit which prompted its manufacture, and because it was an evidence of their good-will to him. Tip rather turned his nose up at it, however. Since his arrival at Minchin’s Island he had been petted and fed by every boy in town, thanks to Bobby’s stories of his ability as a bear dog, until now it required something more than ordinary food to tempt his appetite.

But the feast was not the only way by which the boy who had come among them was to be honored, as Tim soon found out. A very elaborate programme had been arranged, and not one single detail was to be omitted.

Bill Thompson, with his mouth uncomfortably full, arose to his feet in such a clumsy manner that he upset what remained of Bobby’s chowder, very much to the disadvantage of the table-cloth and his trousers, and said, with some hesitation:

“Mr. Babbige, we fellers heard all about you last night from our esteemed feller-citizen, Mr. Bob Tucker, an’ we wanted to do something to show you what we thought of you.”

Here Bill stopped to swallow a portion of the cracker that impeded his speech, and Tim looked around him in blank amazement, not understanding this portion of the proceedings. Bill continued, in the most serious manner:

“We knowed what a hard time you was havin’ on the Pride, an’ we wanted to have you come an’ live here, ’cause we thought we should like you, an’ ’cause you had such a fine dog. This little chowder welcome ain’t all we’ve got for yer. To-morrer we’re goin’ to take Tip an’ you out in the woods, an’ we’ve decided that the first bear he kills shall be skinned, an’ the skin nailed up on Bobby Tucker’s father’s barn, where everybody can see what your Tip has done.”

At that point Bobby Tucker slyly pinched Tip’s stub tail, and he uttered such a yelp that the remainder of the company applauded loudly, thinking he must have understood what was said.

When the noise ceased Bill bowed gracefully to Tip, as an acknowledgment of his appreciation, and, having swallowed that which had been in his mouth, was able to speak more plainly.

“Mr. Babbige, we fellers want to ’gratulate you on gettin’ off the Pride, an’ more ’specially on comin’ to this town, where the fellers will treat you an’ Tip as you ought to be treated. We hope you’ll stay forever with us, an’ never want to go away. Now, fellers, I say three cheers for Tip an’ Tim Babbige.”

The cheers were given with a will, causing Tim’s face to turn as red as a boiled beet, while his confusion was as great as his face was red.

As soon as the noise had died away Bobby was on his feet, ready to express his opinion on the subject.

“Mr. Tim—I mean Tim—no, Mr. Timothy Babbige,” he began, very earnestly; but his difficulty in getting the name right so confused him that he forgot what he was to say next. He cleared his throat until his voice was as hoarse as an aged frog’s, and yet no words came. Then he seized a glass of water, drinking it so fast that he gasped and choked until the tears came into his eyes and his face became as red as Tim’s.

“Mr. Babbige,” he began; but Tim’s big eyes were fixed on him so pityingly that he was all at sea again so far as words were concerned. At length, making a desperate effort, he said: “Well, we’re glad to see you here, Tim, an’ we mean to make it jest as lively for you as we know how.”

Then Bobby sat down, very much ashamed that he had made such a failure; but when the boys cheered him as loudly as they had Bill he began to think it was quite a speech after all.

Every one now looked expectantly at Tim, and he knew he was obliged to make some reply. He gazed at Tip, and Tip gazed at him; but no inspiration came from that source, and he stood up in a desperate way, feeling that as a rule he had rather go hungry than pay such a price for a supper.

“Fellers,” he said, loudly, believing, if the thing must be done, the more noise the better, “I want to thank you all for what you did for Tip when you pulled him out of the water, an’ for what you’ve done for me. The chowder was splendid—”

Here he was interrupted by loud and continued applause for his delicate compliment to their skill as cooks, and it was some moments before he could continue:

“Tip an’ me have had a nice time eatin’ it, an’ we’re a good deal more glad to be here than you are to have us.”

He could think of nothing more to say, and was about to sit down when Bobby asked: “What about killin’ the bears?”

“I’d most forgotten about them,” he said, as he straightened himself up and looked down at Tip with pride. “If you’ve got any bears round here that wants to be killed, Tip will fix ’em for you; but if you want to save the skins to nail up on the barn, you must rush in an’ catch Tip before he chews ’em all up. Why, I saw Tip catch a woodchuck once, an’ before you could say ‘scat’ he’d chewed him awfully. So you’ll have to be kinder careful of your bears when Tip once gets his eye on ’em.”

That was the end of Tim’s speech, for the applause was so great that for the next five minutes it would have been useless for any one to try to make himself heard.

It was very near nine o’clock by the time the formal welcome to Tim was concluded, and after the cabin had been cleaned Bill Thompson said, as he wiped the dish-water from his hands, smoothed down his hair, and made himself presentable for an appearance at home:

“I guess we’d better go now, an’ to-morrer mornin’ we’ll go round back of Bobby Tucker’s father’s woodshed an’ fix up about the bear-hunt.”

The idea that they were to start the ferocious bear from his lair so soon caused a fresh burst of enthusiasm, and each one made another and a personal examination of Tip, until the much-inspected dog came very near being cross.

It was rather a sleepy party that clambered over the side of the schooner that night; but it was a party that had the most absolute faith in Tip Babbige’s ability to kill all the bears on the island.

Chapter IX.
THE FAMOUS BEAR-HUNT.

When Tim went home with Bobby he saw Mr. and Mrs. Tucker, and from them received such a kindly greeting that he thought he must be remarkably good in order to repay them for their kindness.

He was a happy boy when he went to bed that night, and made more so by seeing Tip stretched out on a rug by the side of the bed whenever he took the trouble to look that way.

On the first morning after Tim’s arrival Mr. Tucker, without saying what his intentions were regarding the future of the homeless boy, told him and Bobby they could enjoy themselves after their own fashion for two weeks, at the end of which time school began. Therefore there was nothing to prevent the bear-hunt from taking place, unless it should be the failure of the bears to show themselves.

Tip was fed on the choicest morsels which could be procured; and so anxious were the boys that he should be in the best possible fighting trim, that it was proposed to rub him thoroughly with lard, to make his joints more supple, that he might be able to run swiftly when chasing the game.

This idea was discarded, however, very shortly after they attempted to carry it into execution, owing to a decided difference of opinion on Tip’s part, who made such serious objections to it that Bobby concluded perhaps he could run just as well if his joints were not quite so limber.

Bill Thompson was the first of the party to arrive at the rendezvous back of the shed, and, almost before he spoke to the boys, he made another and a more critical examination of Tip. Bill was not only eager for the fray, but he was thoroughly well armed. He had a murderous-looking carving-knife stuck in a belt that had been hastily made of a strip of black cloth, and in his hands he carried a small shot-gun, which he might have some difficulty in discharging, owing to the fact that he was obliged to carry the lock in his pocket.

When Bill’s attention was called to this fact he explained that he did not depend so much upon the gun to shoot with as he did for use as a club, with which the bear’s brains could be easily dashed out. The knife was the weapon in which he put more dependence, and he proved that it was a good one by making shavings of fully half a shingle in less than five minutes.

This display of weapons and air of ferocity on Bill’s face so pleased Tim and Bobby that they blamed themselves severely for not having made their own preparations for a fight. That oversight was quickly remedied when Bobby produced an old army musket, the weight of which made him stagger, and a small pistol that had been loaded nearly a year, the charge having obstinately refused to come out.

“You’ll want the pistol, Tim,” he said, as he handed that weapon to his friend, “’cause it’ll be a good deal handier to fire when you’re close up to the bear, an’ you know you’ll have to go pretty snug to him, so’s to keep Tip from eating the skin.”

Tim took the pistol carefully, looked down into the muzzle, as if wondering at which end it would be safest to stand when the weapon was finally discharged, and then secured it by sticking it between the waist-band of his trousers and shirt.

Bobby, with all possible precaution against accidents, loaded the army musket with the powder taken from six fire-crackers, and rammed home five or six small stones in place of bullets. He had no percussion-caps; but he felt certain he could discharge it as well by holding a lighted match at the nipple as if he had all the caps ever made. Owing to Bobby’s mother’s decided refusal to loan two of her carving-knives, they were obliged to get along without anything of that sort, and depend on the one carried by Bill to skin their game when it was killed.

The other hunters arrived in parties of twos and threes, and each new arrival thought it necessary to make another and more minute examination of Tip, in order to be certain that he was in the best possible condition for the hunt. Each of the new-comers was armed, but none could boast of having more destructive weapons than those carried by the three leaders.

Bill was anxious to start at once, in order, as he said, to get the skin nailed up on the barn before night; and as they were about to set out Bobby cried, in tones of horror:

“Here! how do you s’pose we can get any bears if we let Tip go on ahead? Why, he’ll rush off jest as soon as he sees one, an’ we can’t catch him before he eats ’em all up.”

It was almost a shudder that ran through the party as they realized how near they had been to losing their game before it had been caught, and the greatest excitement reigned.

“What shall we do?” asked Bill, completely at a loss to arrange matters; and then, as a happy thought came to him, he cried: “I know now: we can take turns carryin’ him.”

A look of scorn came upon Bobby’s face as this brilliant idea was given words, and he said, almost with a sneer:

“Now, what a way that would be, wouldn’t it? How do yer s’pose he could smell out the tracks if we didn’t let him run on the ground?”

That one question made Bill Thompson feel very cheap indeed, for it showed plainly that he was not posted in bear-hunting, and he was anxious to be looked upon as one who knew all about it.

“What shall we do, then?” he asked, mournfully.

“We must tie a rope round his neck, so’s we can hold him back.”

Bill actually looked ashamed when this very simple plan was proposed, and he was angry with himself for not having been the first to think of it. But he saw a way to save his reputation.

“That’s a good plan,” he said, gravely, as if he had thought of it before, but had not suggested it, hoping a better one would be proposed; “but you’ll want more’n one rope. Why, if Tip should see a bear suddenly he’d break the biggest rope we could get, an’ go after him before we’d know anything.”

Every boy there agreed with Bill, and again he stood high as an experienced bear-hunter.

Bobby got two pieces of an old clothes-line, each about five yards long, and these were fastened securely around Tip’s neck; while Tim and Bobby each held an end, with the understanding that, if the dog struggled very hard to get away, the others of the party were to rush in and help hold him.

Poor Tip appeared very sorrowful at this lack of confidence, as shown by the ropes, and his short tail, which had stuck straight up, owing to the excitement around him, now hung down in a sad way.

“He don’t like it,” said Tim, as he tried to cheer Tip by patting him on the head. “He wants to rush right in an’ chew ’em all up, that’s what’s the matter with him.”

No one doubted that statement, and admiring glances were bestowed upon the very small but very ferocious dog.

The party was ready for the start, and the precautions they took even before they were clear of the shadow of the wood-shed told that they did not intend to lose any game by carelessness. Tim and Bobby went in advance, leading Tip, who did not make the slightest effort to get away, and followed by Bill Thompson, carrying his gun in one hand and his knife in the other. Then came the remainder of the party, near or at a distance, as their fear of bears was much or little.

Although it could hardly be expected that any bear had been so venturesome as to cross a field almost in the centre of the town, Tip was encouraged to smell of the ground, and each of the boys was ready for an immediate attack before they were beyond the sound of Mrs. Tucker’s voice.

The march to the edge of the grove was necessarily a slow one, for Tip, finding that he was encouraged to run from one side of the path to the other, did so to his heart’s content, while the boys expected each moment to see him start off like a race-horse, and were ready to spring at once to the aid of Tim and Bobby.

If their caution was great before they left the field, it would be almost impossible to find a word to express their movements when they entered the woods. Every weapon was handled as though it was to be used at once, and the greater portion of the time every eye was fixed on Tip. But not once had the noble animal drawn taut the ropes that held him, not once had he shown any desire to start away at any furious rate of speed. But after half an hour he suddenly smelled of the ground, and then started away at a run, which made the excitement most intense.

“He’s after the bear now, sure!” cried Bill Thompson, as he brandished his knife savagely, and swung his gun around, so that it would be ready for use as a club.

At this startling announcement one or two of the boys who had been careful to keep well in the rear ran considerably slower, as if they were perfectly willing their companions should have all the glory and fight, while one of the party actually turned his back on the prospective scene of carnage and went home.

On sped Tip, now really pulling on the ropes, and Bobby’s face grew pale as he thought how rapidly he was being forced toward the dangerous and anxiously expected fight.

Tip, not understanding that two boys were obliged to follow directly behind him, and, still hot on the scent of some animal, suddenly darted between a couple of trees standing very near each other.

It was impossible for both Tim and Bobby to pass through this narrow space together; but in their excitement they did not stop to think of that, and the consequence was that they both fell sprawling to the ground, while Tip was brought to a very sudden stop.

The dog seemed rather discouraged by the sudden check to his speed, and it was some time before he could be persuaded to start again. This second race had just begun, and the boys were growing eager again, when Bill Thompson shouted:

“There he is! there he is! Hold on to your dog now, an’ let’s get all ready before we rush in.”

“Where is he? where is he?” asked each one, as he halted and tried to distinguish the form of the animal in the direction pointed out by Bill; but none of them feeling quite as brave as they did a moment before.

“Look right there!” and Bill pointed to a certain spot in the woods where the trees grew thickest. “Now watch, an’ you’ll see him move.”

It was possible to see some dark-colored body moving among the thick foliage, and there was no longer any doubt but that one of the animals they were in search of was very near to them.

A shade of fear came over the faces of quite a number of that hunting party then, and the most frightened-looking one was Bobby Tucker. He, who had been so proud a few moments before because he had been given the post of honor, now appeared to be perfectly willing that some one else should hold Tip when the expected rush was made, and he appeared to have suddenly lost all desire for a bear-hunt.

Bill Thompson now assumed the command of the party, and no one questioned his right to do so. The orders he gave were obeyed as promptly as could have been expected under the circumstances, and he began the delicate task of posting his men in those positions best calculated to bring out their fighting qualities.

Tim and Bobby, being nearer the dangerous animal than the others, were ordered to keep strict watch of the spot where the bear was last seen, and on no account to let him get away without their knowledge.

“Keep your eyes right on him,” shouted Bill to the two who were preventing Tip from eating the bear. “The first minute he starts to run let Tip go, an’ yell as loud as you can.”

Then he ordered this boy behind a tree, and another into the branches, making such a warlike hubbub as probably was never before heard in those woods. Meanwhile Tip had concluded the best thing he could do was to take a rest, and he lay at full length under the tree, as if such an idea as chewing a bear had never entered his head.

Finally Bill made all his arrangements, and cautiously stepped a yard or two in advance, with both knife and gun ready for instant use.

“What do you think, Tim, had we better rush right in, or shall we throw a stone, an’ let Tip catch him when he runs out?” he asked, in a whisper, as if he was afraid of scaring the beast after all the noise that had been made.

“Heave a stone in; that’s the best way,” said Bobby, quickly, not liking the idea of being one of the party who were to make the rush.

Nearly all the boys showed that they preferred the most peaceable way of commencing the fight, and Bill prepared to start the savage beast from his lair.

At first he was at a loss to know what to do with his weapons while he cast the stone that might do so much mischief; but finally he arranged it to his satisfaction by holding the knife under his left arm, so that it could be drawn readily, and by keeping the gun in his left hand.

“Now look out!” he shouted, “an’ be ready to let Tip go when the bear comes out. All yell as loud as you can when I fire, so’s to scare him.”

Then Bill raised his arm, took deliberate aim at the centre of the clump of bushes, and threw the stone.

The instant he did so he grasped his knife, and the others set up such a cry as ought to have startled a dozen bears.

It was some seconds before any sign was made that the animal in hiding even knew the stone had been thrown, and then there was a movement in the bushes as if it had simply changed its position—nothing more.

Bill stood silent with astonishment; he had expected to see that bear come out of the bushes with a regular flying leap, and he was thoroughly disappointed.

“Better let Tip go in an’ snake him right out,” suggested Bobby, who was afraid Bill would again propose a charge by the party.

Bill looked at Tim to see what he thought of such a plan, and the dog’s owner nodded his head in approval.

“Then all get ready, an’ take the rope off his neck,” shouted Bill, as he set his teeth hard because of the struggle that it was evident would come soon.

Having the most perfect faith in the ability of his dog to kill any animal not larger than an elephant, Tim cautiously untied the ropes. But Tip did not appear to be excited by the prospect; he did not even get up from the ground, but lay there wagging his stub tail as if he was playing at “thumbs up.”

“Set him on!” cried Bill, tired of the inactivity; and Tim, now afraid his pet might be accused of cowardice, set him on with the most encouraging cries of “S’t-aboy!” But Tip, instead of running toward the bear, seemed to be bewildered by the noise, for all hands were shouting at him; he jumped to his feet, and ran round and round his master, as if asking what was wanted of him.

Tim grew nervous, more especially as he saw some of the boys who had appeared the most frightened when the stone was first thrown now smile, as if they were saying to themselves that Tip couldn’t be so very much of a bear dog after all, if he was afraid to kill one that had been found for him.

Tim walked as near the bushes as he dared to go, pointed with his finger, and urged Tip to “go an’ bring him out,” but all to no purpose. The dog seemed willing enough, but it was evident he did not understand what was wanted of him. Then Tim picked up a piece of wood, and, after showing Tip that he was to follow it, threw it in the direction of the supposed bear.

This time Tip understood, and he bounded into the thicket, while each one of the party held his breath in suspense, and grasped his weapons, ready for immediate use.

The moment Tip was hidden by the bushes he began to bark furiously, and there was no doubt but that the battle had commenced. Even Bill Thompson appeared to be a little timid, and he no longer advised a rush, even though there was a chance that the skin was being destroyed. However, he did suggest that Tim and Bobby should go in and put a rope around Tip’s neck, so that he could be pulled away as soon as the bear was dead; but his advice was not taken, nor did there seem any chance that it would be.

Once Bobby took deliberate aim in the direction of the noise made by Tip, and was just lighting a match to discharge the weapon when Tim stayed his murderous hand.

“You might kill Tip, an’ then we’d have to fight the bear all by ourselves, ’cause Tip must have bit him some by this time an’ made him mad.”

No suggestion could have been made which would have stopped Bobby quicker, and he turned very pale at the thought of being deprived of Tip’s protection, dropping his gun very quickly.

Just at this time, when all were growing nervous and excited, the sounds in the bushes told that the beast was at last being driven from its lair. Quite a number of the party lost all interest in the matter when they found they were to have a full view, and immediately retreated to a safe distance.

But Bill, Tim, and Bobby held a portion of their ground manfully, knowing they would be in deepest disgrace if they, the leaders of the party, should make any undignified flight. However, they thought their dignity would not suffer to any great extent if they should hide behind a tree, and they did so at once.

The crackling and crashing of the bushes told that some large animal was being driven out by Tip; and as they watched in breathless—perhaps frightened—anxiety one of the causes of the commotion stalked out into view, while at the same time an exclamation of disgust and relief burst from Bill Thompson’s lips:

“Gracious! it’s only Bobby Tucker’s cow!”

And so it was. The bear had turned into a peaceful, rather sleepy-looking old cow, who had sought the shade of the bushes, only to be driven from her cool retreat by Tip Babbige and a lot of noisy boys.

How brave they all were then, and how they laughed at each other’s cowardice, declaring that they had only feared it might not be a bear after all! But they patted Tip’s head, and spoke to him kindly, as if he had relieved them from some terrible peril, instead of only disturbing a cow.

After the first excitement attending the finding of the cow had subsided, the question arose as to the proper course to pursue, and it was decided that the bear-hunt must be continued, as it would not be at all the right thing to delay another day in nailing a skin to Bobby Tucker’s father’s barn.

This time the march was not made with so much caution, and Tip was allowed to roam about loose, in the hope that he might find the bear’s trail more quickly. Bobby even proposed to shoot a squirrel; but this plan was quickly frowned down by Bill Thompson, who reminded him that he had no more powder, and that the bear might come upon them at the very moment when the gun was empty.

Tip ran on, joyous at having recovered his freedom, and in a short time was out of sight. Then the boys ceased even to keep a lookout for large animals, growing so careless as to watch the squirrels, hunt for birds’ nests, and act in every way unbecoming bear hunters.

But suddenly they were roused into activity and excitement by furious, angry barking some distance away.

“He’s caught one this time!” shouted Bill, as he drew his knife from his belt and started forward rapidly, followed closely or afar off by the remainder of the party, according to their degree of courage.

When the scene of the conflict was reached, and it was positive that a fight was in progress, because Tip’s barking had changed to short, angry yelps, the greater portion of the party found that they were too tired to run any farther, and fell into such a slow pace that they could not arrive until the battle was over.

“I can see them!” shouted Bill, exultantly; “an’ it ain’t a very big bear—only a small one. Come on quick!”

As the leaders of the party dashed into a small cleared space they saw Tip actually fighting, and this time it was no cow, but a small, dark-colored animal, which, if it really was a bear, must have been a very young one.

Bill was not afraid of so small an animal, and he jumped forward with his knife; but Tim cried:

“It’s only a young one. Let’s get him away from Tip, an’ take him home alive.”

He spoke too late to save the animal’s life, for just then Tip gave the small bundle of fur a toss in the air, and when it came down it was dead.

Tim caught Tip by the neck, to prevent any further attack on his part, and the boys gathered around the victim. It was no bear, but a woodchuck, Tip had killed, as they all knew after a short examination, and the disappointment they felt at not having slain a bear was greatly lessened by the fact that they had really killed something.

How they praised and petted Tip then! Not a boy among them, from that moment, but believed he could have killed a bear as easily as he had killed the woodchuck, and Tim was happy.

That night there was a skin nailed on Bobby Tucker’s father’s barn, but it was not a bearskin, and it was wofully cut and hacked, owing to Tip’s teeth and Bill Thompson’s very unscientific skinning.

Chapter X.
BILL THOMPSON’S TENT.

Hardly had the boys ceased to talk of their grand hunt when they were thrown into the greatest excitement by news which Bill Thompson had called them together to impart. This is what he said, when at least a dozen were present behind the same barn that had been ornamented with the skin of Tip’s victim:

“Fellers, my father has jest brought home a great big tent—a reg’lar canvas one—an’ he says we may take it, an’ all go off campin’ for a week. What do you think of that?”

For some moments it was impossible to learn just what the boys did think of it, for they all attempted to talk at once, and some, who could not speak as loud as the others, began to cheer, until Tip—who, of course, had been called into council with the others—barked loudly at the confusion of sound. Although Bill knew that his companions were almost beside themselves with joy at the news, it was fully ten minutes before the noise had subsided sufficiently for him to learn that fact from their words.

Bobby Tucker was positive he and Tim would be allowed to go with the party, because his father had told them they might enjoy themselves in their own way until the summer term of school began, and the majority of those present were equally certain they could go. Those who had any doubts on the matter started off at once to gain the desired permission, and in a short time it was decided that just an even dozen—eleven boys and Tip—would make up the party. Then the serious work began.

It was necessary to decide where they should go, how they were to get there, and how a supply of provisions could be obtained.

Bobby Tucker was sure he could get a bushel of potatoes as his share, and a large piece of pork as Tim’s. Bill Thompson owned three of the hens in his father’s flock, one of which he agreed to carry, in order that at least one “big” dinner might be served, and he also agreed to get three dozen of eggs. Jimmy Newcomb, whose father kept a store, was certain he could get a large supply of crackers and a small supply of candy. Another of the party promised butter, pepper, and salt; another agreed, in the name of his mother, to have some gingerbread and pies; and so the list of provisions was made up, thus settling the last question first.

Where the camp should be pitched was a more difficult matter to decide. Some were in favor of going in the same direction as that taken on the bear-hunt; but this was voted down at once by Bill Thompson, who, because he was the party furnishing the tent, had great weight in the discussion.

“We want to go ’way off where we can’t get back for a good while,” he said, decidedly. “An’, besides, we must go where nobody lives, so’s we can find more bears for Tip.”

Then another of the party suggested getting a horse and cart, and going as far into the interior of the island as possible; but this Bill objected to, on the ground that they would then be obliged to follow some road, which would still keep them within the range of civilization.

“Can’t we get a boat, an’ go way round to the other side of the island, where nobody lives?” asked Tim.

“That’s the very thing,” said Bill, decisively—“that’s the very thing, an’ Jimmy Newcomb can get the one his father keeps at Dunham’s wharf.”

All three of the questions having thus been settled, the boys went over to Bill Thompson’s to view the tent which was to afford them their highest idea of enjoyment. It was found to be quite large enough to shelter the entire party, being fully twelve feet square, and complete in everything save pegs and stakes, which could easily be made before starting, or after they should arrive on the spot where it was to be pitched.

It was some time before the boys had gazed sufficiently upon this canvas house, so wonderfully come into their possession, and they would probably have spent more time in admiration of it, had there not been some little doubt as to whether Jimmy Newcomb’s father had the same idea regarding the loan of his boat as his son.

It was thought best to have an interview with Mr. Newcomb at once, and the entire party marched down the village to a point almost opposite the store, and waited there while Jimmy went in to ask the important question.

He remained inside so long that every boy’s face commenced to grow sad, for each moment he was there seemed to tell that he was not succeeding in the project.

“I guess his father won’t let him have it, an’ he’s stayin’ there to coax,” said Bill, sadly; but he had hardly spoken when Jimmy appeared. He could not wait until he crossed the street before he imparted the joyful news, but waved his hat even while he stood on the threshold of the door, and shouted, at the highest squeak of his voice:

“It’s all right, boys; we can have her as long as we want, if we’re careful not to get her stove up.”

In the twinkling of an eye every one of those boys had started at full speed toward Dunham’s wharf, that they might look at the craft which was to carry them on their journey. They had all seen the boat at least a hundred times before, but now that she was theirs for a while she seemed like a new one.

Since the boat was ready, and the tent nearly complete for pitching, Bill Thompson proposed that each one should spend that day getting ready for the trip. The time set for the start was seven o’clock on the following morning, and every one was expected to be on hand promptly at that hour. Tim, Bobby, and Bill promised to make the tent pegs and stakes, and it was decided that, if any important question should come up meanwhile, they should meet behind Bobby Tucker’s barn that night to discuss it.

With this agreement the conference broke up, and during the remainder of that day, when any of the townspeople saw a boy running at full speed, or staggering under a load of bed-clothing, they knew he was one of the party who were going out camping for a week.

It would not be surprising if the mothers of those boys lost their temper several times during the following ten hours, so numerous were their wants, and such vague ideas did they have as to the amount of provisions necessary for a week’s stay in the woods. But, greatly to the delight of both the boys and their parents, the day came to a close, as all days will, and a very happy party met in the rear of Mr. Tucker’s barn.

Each one had secured the articles promised, while some had been able to do even more. Bobby had found a flag, rather the worse for wear, to be sure, but still showing enough of the Stars and Stripes to allow one to see what it had been, and this was looked upon as the crowning triumph of all.

Tim, Bobby, and Bill had worked hard at the tent pegs, but had made only about half the required number. This, however, was not considered important, since the remainder could be made after they arrived at the camping-place.

When the party broke up that night it was with the understanding that each one would be at the boat as early as possible, and it was hard work for any of them to get to sleep that night. But nearly all of them were up and dressed before the sun had any idea that it was time for him to show his face in the east.

It was hardly half-past six when everything, from the tent to Bill Thompson’s live hen, was in the boat, packed snugly. The flag was raised at the stern of a thin slab of drift-wood, held in place by Jimmy Newcomb, who was given the position of helmsman, owing to the fact that his father owned the boat. The remainder of the party were to take turns at rowing, and when the boat was pushed away from the shore, four oars were worked as vigorously as the boys at the end of them knew how.

MAKING READY TO EMBARK

Bill Thompson started a song, in which all joined; Tip barked until there was danger that he would become hopelessly hoarse; and the old hen cackled and scolded, as if she knew just what her fate was to be.

There was only one settlement on Minchin’s Island, and it was the plan of the party to row around the coast until they reached a point as nearly opposite the village as possible. The distance was fully ten miles; but no one thought the labor would be too great if, by dint of hard rowing, they could reach a place that was uninhabited, and each was ready to take his turn at the oar whenever another was tired.

Now, Bill Thompson was a great stickler for discipline; and although he had said nothing about it when the details of the voyage were under discussion, he had a plan which he began to carry into execution as soon as the journey was fairly commenced.

“Now, we’ve got to do this thing right,” he said, as he braced himself in the bow, where he could have a view of all hands. “We must choose different ones to do different things, so’s we’ll know what we’re about. We’ve got to have cooks, an’ I nom’nate Tim Babbige an’ Bobby Tucker to take care of the victuals an’ do the cookin’.”

Bill paused, as if for some one to second the proposition, and Jimmy Newcomb said—not very properly, to be sure, according to the rules laid down for the election of gentlemen to office, but still quite emphatically enough to show he meant it—

“That settles it;” and Tim and Bobby were considered elected to the responsible offices of cooks and guardians of the food.

“Now, I go in for makin’ Jimmy Newcomb captain of the ship, an’ he must boss the job when we’re out on a trip, an’ when we’re landin’.”

This time Tim, being already one of the most important officers of the expedition, considering it necessary to assist in the election of some of the others, said, quickly:

“That’s jest the thing.”

After Bill had appointed certain of the boys to cut wood and bring water, he said, with just a shade of hesitation in his voice, as if he was troubled with bashfulness:

“Now somebody’s got to be captain of the huntin’, an’ if you boys are willin’ I’ll do that; an’ whatever kind of wild animals we scare up, I promise to be the first one to rush in an’ cut their throats after Tip has caught ’em.”

This was considered as a sort of oath of office, and each member of the party made some sign of agreement in Bill’s self-election, feeling perfectly satisfied that he should fill what was looked upon as a dangerous position.

After they had rowed at least three hours, different members of the crew insisted that they must have gone entirely around the island, and were then proceeding toward home; but Jimmy quickly put a stop to any grumbling. Both he and Bill knew when they were about opposite the village, for they had been there several times with Captain Thompson, and they were both equally positive that they had yet some miles to go before gaining the extreme end of the island.

It was about eleven o’clock, and nearly every boy was tired out with his work at the oar, when Jimmy ordered them to stop rowing, and pointed inshore.

The view which presented itself was a lovely one. Two points of rock projected some distance into the sea, forming a little harbor, at the head of which was a smooth, shelving beach of sand. Just back of the beach was a dense grove of pine-trees, and through them led a narrow path, now so covered with vines and weeds as to show it had not been used, by man at least, for some time.

Jim had no need to ask what his companions thought of camping there, for each one appeared delighted with it, and the boat was headed for the beach.

Bill Thompson was the first to leap ashore, and, though he was only the chief huntsman, he assumed full charge of the expedition, so far as landing and setting up the tent were concerned.

A cleared spot in the grove about fifty yards from the beach was selected as the site of the tent, and they then wished that the pegs had all been made before they started, for the canvas could not be put up till that was done. Bill and two others set about this important work, while Tim and Bobby bustled around to get something to eat, and Jim made sure the boat was anchored securely.

The first thing done by the two cooks was to tie Bill’s hen by her leg to a tree, and then it was found necessary to fasten Tip some distance from her, since he showed a decided inclination to treat her as he had the woodchuck.

Then the more skilful work of building the fireplace was begun, and this Tim took charge of, while Bobby unpacked the kettle and spider, got the potatoes ready for cooking and made himself generally useful.

Tim made rather a good job of the fireplace, and after he had finished it to his satisfaction he cut three forked sticks, on which to hang the kettle, but immediately afterward found that they had forgotten to bring a chain, and would be obliged to suspend the pot by a rope, thereby running some risk of its burning.

Meanwhile the wood and water carriers had done their part of the work, and the cooks found plenty of material close at hand for beginning their culinary operations. The potatoes were put on to boil, and, thanks to the generous fire underneath them, gave promise of speedily being ready to do their allotted duty in the dinner which the hungry boys were anxiously expecting.

Bill had finished making his tent pegs, and by the time Tim had succeeded in hanging the kettle the tent was up, needing only the delicate operation of setting the stakes properly to make it a large and habitable dwelling.

Chapter XI.
ONE COOK SPOILS THE BROTH.

The question of what was to make up the dinner bill of fare appeared to be an important one to all, and many were the suggestions made to the cooks. Some proposed that the work of raising the tent be intrusted to other hands, so that Bill and Tip could go out and bring in a deer or a bear; others thought the old hen should be killed at once, and served up as a roast; while one portion of the party seemed to think it Captain Jimmy’s duty to get his ship under way and go after some fish for a chowder.

But Tim and Bobby did not allow any of these remarks to trouble them; they were the legally elected cooks, and they proposed to do the work in their own way.

“We’ll get the dinner,” said Tim, with some dignity; “an’ after it’s done, if you fellers don’t like it, you can cook one to suit yourselves.”

But the cooks did listen to what Bill had to say, since he was one of the high officials, and he was strongly in favor of making the first dinner in camp a “big” one, even going so far as to propose in all earnestness that the hen be killed.

“We might jest as well eat her,” he said, as he looked murderously toward the unhappy fowl, which was struggling to free herself from her bonds at the risk of breaking her leg. “’Cause jest as likely as not she’ll get away, an’ then we sha’n’t so much as have a smell of her.”

“It will take us too long to fix her up for dinner,” said Tim, who was just the least bit afraid that he was not cook enough to serve the hen properly, “We can get enough to eat to-day without havin’ so much fuss.”

“I don’t care how long it takes; what we want is a bang-up dinner, an’ I go in for havin’ it now,” said Bill, decidedly.

Bobby was on the point of throwing the weight of his opinion against the proposed feast when a bark of triumph was heard from Tip, and the question was settled without farther discussion. The dog, which had been struggling to get free from the time he had been tied so near the hen, to which he seemed to think he had a perfect right, finally succeeded in releasing himself. There was a sudden rush on his part, a loud, cackling protest from poor Biddy, who seemed to anticipate her fate, and then she was tossed in the air a dead chicken.

Bill had presence of mind enough, fortunately for the dinner prospects, to seize his hen before Tip made his lunch from her, and he said, as he handed her to Tim:

“There, you see Tip knew we ought to kill her, an’ so he did it for us. Now we can have a good dinner.”

Tim made no reply, and perhaps for the first time in his life he was angry with Tip for having meddled in matters which did not concern him. It was necessary now to cook the hen, and as he stood with her in his hand the terrible thought came to him that he did not even know enough to prepare her for cooking.

“Do you think we had better have her roasted or boiled?” he asked, in a low tone, of Bobby.

Now, this other cook was quite as perplexed about the matter as Tim was, and he was thoroughly well pleased that he had allowed his partner to take the lead in other matters, so that the latter would now be obliged to take all the responsibility of the hen’s appearance at the dinner-table.

“I think we had better roast her,” he said, in a careless sort of way, as if to him one style of cooking was as easy as another.

Again was Tim disappointed. He had hoped Bobby would propose boiling her, in which case all he would be obliged to do would be to pop her into the kettle, letting her stay there until she was done. But since Bobby was so cruel as to propose the hardest way of cooking the hen, roasted it must be, or gone was his reputation as cook.

“I’ll pick the feathers off,” said Bill, gleefully; and Tim handed him the fowl.

“I don’t seem to see how we’re goin’ to get along,” said Tim to Bobby. “We ain’t got any dishes to cook her in.”

“We don’t want any, do we?” asked his assistant, in some surprise. “I always thought when folks that were campin’ out cooked anything they stuck it on a stick in front of the fire, an’ let it sizzle.”

“We can do it so now!” he exclaimed; and, since this suggestion had been made, roasting chickens did not appear to be any very hard matter after all.

He piled the wood on until he had a fire large enough to roast a pig, cut a long, sharp stick on which to spit the hen, and had hardly completed these preparations when Bill Thompson reappeared with the now featherless victim of Tip’s bloodthirsty nature.

Bill’s work might have been done more neatly; but what did a few feathers amount to when a dozen hungry boys were waiting to be fed? Tim was not quite sure whether he had better cut off the head and legs, or not; but, as they did not seem to be in the way, he concluded they might as well be cooked. Neither did he think any cleaning necessary, but plunged the stick through her, and stuck one end in the ground in front of the fire with all the grace of an experienced cook.

The remainder of the party watched this work with hungry eagerness; and when Tim filled the kettle with potatoes they settled themselves down contentedly to wait for the “bang-up” dinner for which they were in a measure indebted to Tip.

The water in the pot bubbled and boiled merrily; the murdered hen began to steam and sizzle, till every boy’s mouth watered with anticipation; while Tim and Bobby bustled around in an important manner, feeling that they were looked up to as the head men of the party, and enjoying the distinction immensely.

They piled on the wood, stirred the potatoes, as if that was the important part of cooking that vegetable, while every few moments Tim would smell of the hen, nearly singeing the hair from his head each time. They were certainly good cooks, if keeping up a big fire could make them so.

The hen did not appear to be revengeful at having been so suddenly deprived of life, for in a short time her rather lean body began to turn brown, and a most delicious odor arose on the air, even if she was thickly incrusted with ashes.

As Tim turned her carefully he thought with surprise that he was a really good cook, and blamed himself for having been so distrustful of his own ability.

Thus matters went on, successfully but slowly, until some of the boys showed such plain signs of impatience that Tim thought it necessary to display more evidences of the dinner, even though the hen was far from being roasted.

He and Bobby selected from the cooked provisions enough in the way of pies and cake to make twice as large a party feel very uncomfortable. They spread this feast at one side of the fire, where it would be out of the way of the smoke, and Tim was trying to calculate how it would be possible to cut an apple pie in eleven pieces, and have them all of equal size, when a sound as of water coming in contact with fire, accompanied by a cry of dismay from Bill Thompson, caused him to start violently.

The sight that met his startled gaze was a sad one, and it did not seem any less so to him than it did to all the others of that hungry party.

The kettle of potatoes had been hung to the poles by a rope, which had burnt slowly until it broke, letting the potatoes, water, and kettle into the fire, deluging the half-roasted hen, and basting it with cinders until it looked like a huge ball of mud.

The steam and smoke were so dense that it was impossible to attempt a rescue. All that could be done was to wait a few moments, and Tim spent that time dancing around the ruins like a crazy Indian.

It was a horror-stricken party that stood around the drowned fire, watching the cooks as they fished up first the muddy hen, and then the potatoes, all looking very sorry for their plunge into the ashes.

“Now all you’ve got to do,” said Bill Thompson, with the air of one who knew, “is to put the potatoes right back an’ wash the hen. They’ll cook jest as well as ever, only it’ll take a little longer, that’s all.”

Surely there was nothing so serious about the accident if it could be repaired with so little trouble, and the spirits of the party rose as rapidly as they had fallen. The hen was given a sea bath, which took nearly all the ashes off, and those which remained, Bill Thompson thought, would make her taste the better. The potatoes did not need any cleansing, so Tim thought, and were put into the pot again, looking quite dirty, but in very nearly a cooked condition.

Another fire was built, and rocks were placed in such a way around it that the kettle could rest on them. The hen was put on another stick, and again the chances for dinner looked promising.

The food which had been spread out on the ground looked very tempting to the idle ones of the hungry party, and every now and then one would try to get a piece of pie or cake, until Tim, who was determined that no one should have anything to eat until all could be served, was almost at his wits’ end to prevent them from making a perfect raid on the larder.

Finally, worn out with running from the fire to the table every time he saw one of the party moving innocently up that way, he told Bobby to keep strict guard over the food, and that young gentleman wiped the ashes and perspiration from his face with an air of relief, as he seated himself near the largest pie, prepared to act the part of watch-dog.

Tip, who had been running about in everybody’s way, and seriously troubling his master, now came toward the fire, and sat down on his little stubbed tail in such a suspicious manner that Tim felt reasonably certain it was his purpose to steal the hen whenever a good opportunity presented itself.

Such base action on Tip’s part caused Tim more delay, as he was obliged to tie the dog securely to a tree out of reach of temptation, and by the time the tired cook got back to his work again a great commotion was raised by Captain Jimmy and Bobby.

When Bill Thompson had quelled the tumult it was learned that Captain Jim doubted Bobby’s honesty from the first moment he had been appointed guardian of the food, and had watched him from behind a tree. He stated positively that he saw Bobby’s eyes fixed on the apple-pie in such a way as no officer of the company should look at a pie, unless the time had come to eat it, and, at a time when he thought no one was looking, Jim was sure he saw him put his fingers under the crust, pull out two slices of apple, and eat them.

Of course such a charge as this caused intense excitement, and the majority of the party thought Bobby ought to be punished in some way, as a warning to others, and more especially to show that the officers of the party should be above reproach, or, failing in their duty, be punished severely.

Bobby actually grew frightened as his companions discussed the question of his punishment, and he looked imploringly at Tim, thinking his brother-officer should try to shield him in his crime of stealing the pie. But there was no pity to be seen in the head cook’s face; he felt that the taking of those two pieces of apple by the man who had been appointed to guard them was indeed a crime.

Some of the party proposed that the culprit be condemned to go without his dinner; others, not quite so bloodthirsty, believed he should be deprived of his office, while there were those who believed that to forbid him eating any pie would be punishment enough.

It is hard to say just how Bobby would have been obliged to atone for the sin, if the hand of Justice had not been stayed by the dinner itself.

The chicken was becoming blackened and burnt on one side, from not being turned often enough, the potatoes were boiling into a perfect jelly, and it was all being done so quickly that Tim had not the time to attend to the food properly; therefore it was he who saved his assistant from his judges.

“You’ll have to let him go this time, for he must help me,” he said. “We’ll make him work all the harder to pay for what he’s done.”

Once more over the smoky fire and amid the flying ashes Bobby labored for the good of others, working out the punishment for his sin.

The kettle of potatoes was taken from the fire; and while Bobby picked out the pieces—for they had boiled until they were discouraged, and had burst their skins—arranging them on two shingles, Tim took the well-blackened remains of poor Biddy from the spit, laying them on a short bit of board in great triumph.

Then the hungry party gathered around the place which represented the table, and waited impatiently to be served.

Bill Thompson, with his hunting-knife, proceeded to carve the fowl, which was a work of some time, owing to its exceeding toughness.

In order to show proper respect for the office he held, Bill waited on Captain Jimmy first, and that young gentleman did not waste much time before he began to eat.

The roast was quite raw inside, even though it was burnt outside, but that, in Captain Jimmy’s hungry condition, made very little difference. He cut off the first mouthful and began to eat in a ravenous manner, when suddenly he stopped, looking very queer.

“What is the matter?” asked Tim, anxiously, quick to notice the change in the captain’s face.

“I dunno,” said Jim; “but it tastes kind o’ funny.”

“That’s ’cause you ain’t used to hen,” said Bill, almost savagely, not pleased that any one should find fault with his fowl.

Just then another of the party, who had received his portion and begun eating, laid down his knife and fork with an unmistakable air of discomfort.

“Perhaps you don’t like hen,” cried Bill, now growing angry that food of his providing should be refused.

By this time several of the party had shown unmistakable signs of disliking the roast, and Bill proceeded to make an investigation.

He cut off a large mouthful, and began eating it with the air of one who thinks he knows just what he is about to taste, and has made up his mind beforehand to be pleased. But he stopped as suddenly as the others had, and looking sternly at Tim, he asked:

“What did you put on this hen?”

“Nothin’; perhaps it tastes queer ’cause the ’taters tipped over on it.”

“It don’t taste like ’taters,” said Bill; “it tastes a good deal worse.”

Then he examined the uncarved portion of the fowl, and the mystery was explained.

“I know what the matter is, an’ I don’t think you’re much of a cook, Tim Babbige. You’ve cooked the hen without cleanin’ her, an’ of course she’s spoiled.”

Tim could make no reply, for as soon as Bill spoke he remembered how chickens ought to look when ready to be roasted, and he knew he could no longer hope to be considered a competent cook.

That day the party made their dinner of boiled potatoes and pastry, while Tip actually revelled on the half-roasted fowl he had so ruthlessly slain.

Chapter XII.
TIP’S DANGER.

The work of preparing the dinner had occupied so much time that it was nearly the regular hour for supper before the last boy arose from the lowly table, and not one of them had any desire to fish or hunt. They sat around the fire, dodging the smoke as best they could, until the setting sun warned them that they must get their bedroom work done at once, or be obliged to do it in the dark.

This task was remarkably simple; it consisted in each boy finding his blanket, wrapping himself in it, and lying on the ground, all in a row, like herrings in a box.

Nor did they wait very long for slumber to visit their eyelids, for in ten minutes after they were ready it came to all, even to Tip, who had curled himself up snugly under Tim’s arm.

Had any of the party been experienced in the sport of “camping out,” they would have studied the signs in the sky, for the purpose of learning what might have been expected of the weather; but as it was, they had all laid themselves down to sleep without a thought that the dark clouds which had begun to gather in the sky were evidences of a storm.

It was nearly midnight, and up to that time not one of them had awakened from the heavy sleep into which he had first fallen, when Tim became painfully aware that something was wrong. He had been dreaming that he was again on the Pride of the Wave, that Captain Pratt had thrown him overboard because he had been trying to steer, and just as he struck the water he awoke, with a start.

The moment his eyes were open he understood the reason for his dream: he was lying in a large pool of water, and the blanket in which he had wrapped himself so comfortably was thoroughly saturated with it. At first he was at a loss to account for this sudden change of condition, and then the loud patter of rain on the canvas roof told the story plainly. A storm had come up, and the tent, being on the slope of a hill, was serving as a sort of reservoir for little streams of water that were rapidly increasing in size.

Tip, roused by his master’s sudden movement, had started from his comfortable position and walked directly into the water, very much to his discomfort and fear; howling loudly, he jumped among the sleepers with such force as at once to awaken and terrify them.

It required but a few words from Tim to make them understand all that had happened, for some of them were nearly as wet as he was, and all could hear the patter of the rain, which seemed to increase in violence each moment.

A lonesome prospect it was to think of remaining in the tent the rest of the night, unable to sleep because of the water that poured in under the canvas, or trickled down through three or four small holes in the roof.

For several moments none of them knew what to do, but they stood huddled together in sleepy surprise and sorrow, until Tim proposed that, since he could hardly be more wet than he was, he should go out and dig a trench which would lead the water each side of the tent. But that plan was abandoned when it was discovered that a hatchet and a spoon were the only effective tools they had.

In order to get some idea of the condition of affairs, Tim lighted first one match and then another; but the light shed was so feeble that Captain Jimmy proposed building a small fire, which would both illuminate and heat the interior.

Tim acted upon this suggestion at once. With some newspapers and small bits of wood that were still dry he succeeded in kindling such a blaze as shed quite a light, but did not endanger the canvas. But he forgot all about the smoke, and this oversight he was reminded of very forcibly after a few moments.

Careful examination showed that the water only came in from the upper or higher side of the tent, but it was pouring in there in such quantities that before long the interior would be spread with a carpet of water.

“We’ve got to dig a ditch along this side, so’s the water will run off,” said Tim, after he had surveyed the uncomfortable-looking little brooks, and waited a moment, in the hope that Bill or Captain Jimmy would suggest a better plan.

All saw the necessity of doing something at once, and the moment Tim gave them the idea they went to work with knives, spoons, or any other implements they could find. It did not take much time, even with the poor tools they had, to dig a trench that would carry away any moderate amount of water, and after that was done they gathered around the fire for consultation.

But by that time they began to learn that smoke was even more uncomfortable to bear than water. For some time it had been rising to the top of the tent, escaping in small quantities through the flaps and holes; but only a portion of it had found vent, and the tent was so full that they were nearly suffocated.

They covered their eyes, and tried to “grin and bear it”; but such heroic effort could only be made for a short while, and they were obliged to run out into the pelting rain in order to get the pure air.

It was no fun to stand out-of-doors in a storm, and, acting on Captain Jimmy’s suggestion, the party returned after a few moments to “kick the fire out.”

But such a plan was of very little benefit, since the embers would smoke despite all they could do, and out they ran again, seeking such shelter as they could find under the trees, where it was not long before they came to the conclusion that camping out in a rain-storm was both a delusion and a snare.

In half an hour the tent was so nearly freed from smoke that they sought its shelter again, and when they were housed once more they presented a very forlorn appearance.

At first they decided that they would remain awake until daylight; but as the hours rolled on this plan was abandoned, for one after another wrapped himself in his blanket, concluding he could keep his eyes open as well lying down, and proved it by going to sleep at once.

They did not sleep very soundly, nor lie in bed very late. When they awakened it was not necessary to look out-of-doors in order to know if it was raining, for the water was falling on the thin shelter as hard and as persistently as if bent on beating it down.

There was but one happy-looking face among all the party, and that belonged to Tim. He realized that it would be impossible to do much cooking while it was storming, and after his experience with the hen he had no desire to begin again his official duties.

As soon as the boys were fairly out of bed they began to ask how breakfast could be cooked, and what they were to have in the way of food, all of which questions Tim answered in a way that left no chance for discussion. He cut eleven slices of bread, spread them thickly with butter, placed over that a slice of cake, and informed the party that they would begin the day with just that sort of a breakfast.

Of course there was some grumbling, but the dissatisfied ones soon realized that Tim had done his best under the circumstances, and they ate the bread and cake very contentedly.

That forenoon was not spent in a very jolly manner; no one could go out save at the risk of a thorough wetting, and when dinner, consisting of the same as was given for breakfast, was served, they began to consider themselves an injured party.

That afternoon was a repetition of the forenoon, save that at supper-time Tim gravely informed them that there was hardly enough cooked provisions for breakfast.

Tip got along much better than the others. As soon as he learned that he could not venture outside of the tent without getting wet, he curled himself up on the pile of blankets and slept the day away, save at those times when some one would rouse him up to play—a liberty which he resented in such a manner as caused them to leave him alone very soon.

Nearly every five minutes some one of the boys would open the flaps of the tent, look out, and announce it as his opinion that the storm was clearing away; but yet it continued to rain as hard as ever.

Unfortunately for them, the boys were not as sleepy when the second night came, and the evening spent in the dark was not a cheerful one. The rain was still coming down as steadily as ever, and they had ceased to speculate as to when it would stop. It was after they had been sitting in mournful silence for some time that Bill Thompson started what was a painful topic of conversation.

“How long will the victuals last, Tim?”

“They’re ’most gone now, ’cept the pork an’ ’taters, an’ the eggs, that I never thought of till a minute ago.”

“If it would only stop rainin’, Jim could go out fishin’, an’ I could go out huntin’, and in a day we could get more’n the crowd of us could eat in a week. I’ll tell you what I will do”—and Bill spoke very earnestly—“I’ll take Tip an’ go out alone in the mornin’, whether it rains or not.”

“Why not all go?” said Tim, pleased with the plan. “Supposin’ we do get wet, what of that? We can get dry again when the sun does come out, an’ it’ll be better’n stayin’ here scrouchin’ around.”

There were a number of the boys who were of Tim’s way of thinking, and the hunting party was decided upon for the following day, regardless of the weather.

That night seemed a long one, and when the morning came each one looked anxiously out at the sky, gaining but little comfort from the view. The clouds were dull and gray; and though the rain was not falling as furiously as it had been, it was still coming down in the same determined way.

Tim made an addition to the rather small slices of bread and cake, in the shape of two raw eggs to each boy; and though some of them rebelled at the uncooked food, they were wise enough to suck them before they grumbled very loudly.

After breakfast some of the boys who had been the most determined to join the hunting party the night before, concluded to wait a while longer before setting out, and the consequence was that no one save Tim, Bill, and Bobby had the courage to brave the drenching which it was certain they must get.

This time Bill had a more effective weapon than the one he used at the bear hunt. He had borrowed a fowling-piece of quite a respectable size, and had brought with him a supply of powder and shot.

When Tip was called to join the party he did not display the animation usual with him when invited out for a day’s sport, and Tim blamed him severely for it. But he went, however, and Tim’s scolding seemed to have very little effect upon him.

Believing they should come back staggering under the weight of game which Tip would find and Bill would kill, the boys left the tent, going up the path, since they did not dare to strike through the thickest part of the woods, for fear of getting lost.

Bill covered the lock of the gun with the corner of his jacket, to prevent the cap from getting wet, and on they went, rapidly getting a drenching both from the rain and the water which came from the branches of the trees.

For some time Tip steadily refused to run among the bushes, but after much urging he did consent to hunt in a listless sort of way, barking once or twice at some squirrels that had come out of their holes to grumble at the weather, but scaring up no larger game.

Just at a time when the hunters were getting discouraged by their ill-luck, Tip commenced barking at a furious rate, and started off through the bushes at full speed.

Bill was all excitement; he made up his mind that they were on the track of a deer at last, and was ready to discharge his weapon at the first moving object he should see.

After running five minutes, during which time they made very little progress, owing to the density of the woods, Bobby halted suddenly and, in an excited manner, pointed toward a dark object some distance ahead, which could be but dimly seen because of the foliage.

Bill was on his knee in an instant, with gun raised, and just as he was about to pull the trigger Tim saw the object that had attracted Bobby’s attention.

He cried out sharply, and started toward Bill to prevent him from firing, but was too late. Almost as he spoke the gun was discharged, and mingled with Tim’s cries could be heard the howling of a dog.

“You’ve shot Tip! you’ve shot Tip!” cried Tim, in an agony of grief, as he rushed forward, followed by Bill and Bobby, looking as terrified as though they had shot one of their companions.

When Tim reached the spot from which the cries of pain came he found that his fears were not groundless, for there on the wet leaves, bathed in his own blood, that flowed from shot-wounds on his back and hind-legs, was poor Tip. He was trying to bite the wounds that burnt, and all the while uttering sharp yelps of distress.

Tim, with a whole heart full of sorrow such as he had never known before, knelt by the poor dog’s side, kissing him tenderly, but powerless to do anything for his suffering pet save to wipe the blood away. His grief was too great to admit of his saying anything to the unfortunate hunter who had done him so much mischief, and poor Bill stood behind a tree crying as if his heart was breaking.

Each instant Tim expected to see Tip in his death struggle, and he tried very hard to make the dog kiss him; but the poor animal was in such pain that he had no look even for his master.

It was nearly fifteen minutes that the three were gathered around the dog expecting to see him die, and then he appeared to be in less pain.

“Perhaps he won’t die after all,” said Bill, hardly even daring to hope his words would prove true. “If we could only get home Dr. Abbott would cure him.” Then, as a sudden thought came to him, he turned quickly to Bobby, and said, eagerly: “Run back to the camp as quick as you can, an’ tell the fellers what has happened. Have them get everything into the boat, so’s we can get right away for home.”

Bobby started off at full speed, and Tim, now encouraged to think that Tip might yet recover, began to look hopeful.

Bill set to work cutting down some small saplings, out of which he made a very good litter. On this Tip was placed tenderly, and, with Bill at one end and Tim at the other, they started down the path toward the camp. To avoid jolting the dog, thus causing him more pain, they were obliged to walk so slowly that when they reached the beach the boys were putting into the boat the last of their camp equipage.

Each of the party wanted to examine poor Tip, but Bill would not permit it, because of the delay it would cause. He arranged a comfortable place in the bow where Tip could lie, and another where Tim could sit beside him, working all the time as if each moment was of the greatest importance in the saving of Tip’s life.

At last all was ready, the word was given to push off, and the campers rowed swiftly toward home.

Chapter XIII.
IN CONCLUSION.

Every one knew that Tip’s life depended on their getting home quickly, and all the strength they could command was expended on the oars to such purpose that in a trifle more than two hours the boat was moored alongside Dunham’s wharf again.

Without stopping for anything, the entire party followed Tim and Bill to Dr. Abbott’s office, and there they could hardly prevent themselves from cheering when the doctor told them that Tip’s injuries were by no means serious, and that he would soon be well, although it was possible that he might always be lame in one hind-leg.

The shots were soon extracted, and Tip taken to the most comfortable spot in Mr. Tucker’s barn, where it is safe to say he did not suffer from want of attention.

That night, after Bobby and Tim had told the story of their camping-out, Mr. Tucker thoroughly frightened them by saying that on the next day he was going to take Tim back to Selman, to see Captain Babbige.

Tim’s face grew very pale, and it was plain to be seen that he was in the greatest terror, while Bobby was thrown into a perfect fever of excitement.

“I am not going to leave you there, Tim, if I can help it, for I intend to do by you as I would some one should do by my Bobby if I had been called to meet the Great Father. As matters now stand, you have no right to be here, nor I to keep you; for Captain Babbige is your lawful guardian, whom I hope you did not leave without sufficient cause. To-morrow night we will start for Selman, and there the law shall decide whether you may not be permitted to choose another guardian.”

Bobby caught eagerly at the idea that Tim would soon return, with a perfect right to stay on Minchin’s Island; but the homeless boy took a more gloomy view of the case. He felt certain that Captain Babbige would force him to remain with him, and the future now looked as dark as a day or two before it had looked bright.

So positive did he feel that he should not be allowed to return that if Tip’s wound had been any less severe he would have taken him with him; but as it was he made Bobby promise faithfully to send him as soon as he should be able to travel.

The next day, when the boy population of Minchin’s Island learned that Tim was to be taken back to the man who had abused him so cruelly, they held a sort of indignation meeting back of Mr. Tucker’s barn, where the matter was discussed.

Some of the more excitable among them proposed that, since the steamer on which Tim was to leave would not touch at the island until nearly six o’clock, there was plenty of time for him to run away again, making it impossible for Mr. Tucker to take him back. They argued that he could build himself a hut in the woods, where, protected by Tip, he could live the jolliest kind of a life, and they could all come to see him, as summer boarders.

But Tim rejected all such counsel, giving good reason for doing so:

“Mr. Tucker says I ought not have run away in the first place, and I s’pose he knows, though it does seem hard to have to stay where folks are so awful ugly to you. Now he says I must go back, an’ I wouldn’t be any kind of a feller if I run away from him after he’s been so good to me. I’d like to go out in the woods to live, if it wouldn’t rain any, and I’d do anything rather than go back to Selman; but Mr. Tucker says I ought to go, an’ I’m goin’, whatever Captain Babbige does to me.”

Every boy present knew that Tim was right, and those who had first advised him felt ashamed of having done so, while all united in cheering him for his resolution, until Tip, awakened by the noise, barked loudly, which to Tim’s mind at least was proof that he approved of his master’s decision.

That night Tim was escorted to the steamer by a large number of boys, and while he was on the wharf he felt reasonably brave, even though he was obliged to pass directly in front of Captain Pratt. But when the steamer left the dock, and the cheers of the boys died away in the distance, he fully expected to be summoned to the wheel-house.

But Captain Pratt paid no attention to him, and on the following day Selman was reached without any incident worthy of mention.

There Tim was never exactly certain how the matter was arranged. He knew that he was taken into court almost as if he had been a criminal, that many questions were asked him by the judge, and that a number of gentlemen whom he knew told of the ill-treatment he had received from Captain Babbige.

Then it seemed as if Mr. Tucker had been accused of something, for he told about his business and himself, and showed a great number of letters from people on Minchin’s Island, all speaking of him as a kind and good man.

Captain Babbige was there, apparently in a very uncomfortable frame of mind, and he spoke to Tim in the kindest manner possible, asking if he hadn’t always treated him as a son.

Tim was not sure how fathers did treat sons, except in one or two cases; but he told the captain of what he had said about wanting him to die, and then coaxed the judge—oh, so hard!—to let him go back with Mr. Tucker.

Then some other people had a good deal to say, and the judge talked some more; after they were all through Mr. Tucker told Tim it had been decided he could go back to Minchin’s Island.

Tim’s delight was so great that it seemed impossible for him to keep his feet on the ground, and when he was back at the island again, in the midst of the crowd of boys who had come to welcome him for the second time, his joy found vent in words.

And when Tim got into Mr. Tucker’s house, where Bobby cheered until he was hoarse, and Mrs. Tucker kissed him again and again, he found it impossible even to speak, because of a great lump in his throat, which was not caused by sorrow; but he said over and over again to himself that no one should regret in the man what they had done for the homeless orphan boy.

TOM’S TROUBLES

BY JAMES OTIS

I.

“It’s no use, boys; I can’t stand it any longer”; and Tom Gibson leaned against the fence in front of four of his most intimate friends, assuming such an attitude as he believed should be taken by a very badly abused boy.

“What is it now?” asked little Dwight Holden, in a very unsympathetic tone, much as if he did not believe Tom’s troubles to be so very severe.

“It’s the same thing every day till I’m all worn out,” and Tom wiped his dry eyes with his jacket-sleeve, more to show how heavy his heart was than from any necessity. “I have to ’tend to that ugly baby every time when there’s a good game of ball or I spy going on; an’ if it does happen that I get out for a day’s fun, I have to lug wood an’ water after I get home till my arms are just ready to drop off. But I’m through now an’ that’s all there is to it.”

“What’ll you do?” and Kirk Masters continued to eat a very small and very green apple in a way that showed how much more intent he was upon his limited feast than upon his friend’s wrongs.

“I know what I can do,” said Tom, with a shake of his head that was intended should convey the idea of great mystery, and in this attempt he was remarkably successful. His friends had heard of his troubles before and it was an old story, but the fact that he had formed some plan which he intended should be kept a secret was sufficient to arouse all their curiosity. Dwight was as eager as he had been apathetic, Kirk’s apple seemed suddenly to have lost its flavor, and the entire group of boys gathered around Tom very closely, as if fearful lest they should lose some portion of the wonderful secret they were certain he was about to tell them.

“I am not sure that I dare to tell you,” said Tom, in a mysterious whisper, and the boys knew at once that he was ready to tell them all. “You see, if my folks should know what I’m going to do, that would spoil everything.”

“But what are you going to do?” persisted Kirk, whose interest in his apple was now wholly gone.

“Promise that you won’t ever tell.”

In an instant every boy had vowed that he would keep the secret, and, after assuring himself that there was no other person near who might hear him, Tom began:

“I’m going to run away.”

The little circle of listeners gazed at the bold boy in almost breathless astonishment, and Tom, fully enjoying the sensation he had caused, continued his story after first pausing sufficiently long to note the effect which his announcement had upon his hearers.

“Yes, I’m going, and you just better believe that I’ll go so far away that nobody’ll ever find me. I’ve stood this working around home just as long as I can, and I’ll show my folks what it is to treat a boy the way they’ve treated me.”

“But where are you going, Tom?”

“That part of it I’m not going to tell,” said Tom, with a decided shake of the head, preferring to seem cruel rather than confess that he had no idea as to where he should go to escape the tyranny of his parents. “I’ll leave here some night, hide under the bridge at Rankin’s brook till morning, and then go to some place where none of the folks around here will ever find me.”

“But what makes you hide under Rankin’s bridge all night?” asked Dwight Holden, curiously.

“So’s I’ll be ready to start just as soon’s it’s daylight, of course.”

“I don’t see what you want to do that for,” persisted Dwight. “You could sleep at home all night and then start from there as early as you wanted to. Nobody would think of stopping you, for they’d believe you were just going to the pasture.”

Tom was puzzled, just for an instant, as to how he should answer the question, and then realizing that it would never do for a boy who was about to run away from home to confess that he did not fully understand his own plans he answered, with a great show of dignity:

“Don’t you bother. I think I know what I’m about. I’ve got to sleep under Rankin’s bridge the night I run away or else the thing wouldn’t work.”

The vagueness of the plan gave it a greater charm in the eyes of Tom’s friends. If it had been a simple scheme of running away, and they had understood it in all its details, it would have seemed dull and commonplace compared to what it was when it was so essential that Tom should sleep under the bridge the night previous to his leaving home forever.

Tom Gibson thoroughly enjoyed the sensation he was causing, and was by no means disposed to leave his friends before whom he was posing as a hero. He did his best to be mysterious both in speech and action, and would have continued to throw out vague hints as to his plans all the afternoon had not one of his oppressors—his mother—called him into the house to perform some one of the many tasks which he believed was wearing his young life away.

It is quite possible, if the whole truth could be known, that Tom had not fully made up his mind to run away from his comfortable home when he first broached the subject to his friends; but they had looked upon him as such a hero from the first moment he mentioned it that he decided it was necessary for him to go.

“I’ll keep on doing what she tells me to, so that folks will see how hard I have to work,” he muttered to himself as he left the boys and went toward the house, “and then when I’m off so far that nobody knows where I am mother’ll be sorry she made me work so hard.”

As a matter of course, however, Tom’s friends met him, after he had announced his determination of leaving home, they made inquiries as to the carrying out of his plan, and this was so pleasant to the dissatisfied and abused young man that he put off taking the final step as long as possible. In fact, he delayed so long that Dwight Holden plainly said one day that he did not believe Tom had ever intended to run away, but that he had said so simply for the purpose of “making himself look big.”

From that day he set about making his preparations for departure in earnest, telling his friends that on the following Tuesday he would disappear, never to be seen in Sedgwick again, unless he should decide, many years later, to come back as a wealthy gentleman, to see how much the town had suffered by his absence.

Since he would be obliged to walk a good portion of the distance to the place where his fortune was to be made, he was forced to leave out of the bundle he was making up many of his valuables because of their size and weight. A toy engine, a glass pen and holder, two rubber balls, a large collection of marbles (agates and alleys), a folding kite frame, three odd skates, a lodestone, and two mouth harmonicas made up the list of treasures that could be carried, and these were carefully packed in an old army blanket. He had saved cookies, gingerbread, and choice pieces of pie until he had as much as he believed would suffice as food for a week, and this he intended to carry in a paper parcel in his hand.

Every arrangement had been made. The day Tom had set for his departure came so quickly that it seemed as if there must have been some mistake in the almanac, and two or three days had been lost. Tom met his friends, acted the part of a hero before them until it was so late that each one had been obliged to go home, and then he, having bidden each one in turn a solemn good-by, was compelled to carry out the plan he had laid.

It is certain that at the moment his friends left him Tom was thoroughly sorry he had ever said anything about running away. He had suddenly come to understand what it was to be alone, and he by no means fancied the sensation. At that moment his troubles which were obliging him to leave home did not seem to be nearly so great as they had been a few days before; his home had never appeared so cheerful as now when he was leaving it, and he actually began to hope that some insurmountable obstacle would occur to prevent his running away.

The tears filled his eyes as he crept softly up the back stairs, wishing so much that he could kiss his mother and sister good-by, wishing that he had never thought of going, but fully believing that it would be unmanly not to do so, and that his schoolmates would laugh at him if he should abandon the scheme before he had even attempted to carry it into execution.

He hoped the stairs would creak so loudly that his mother would come to see what the matter was and discover him leaving the house with his bundles, but when he came down there was hardly a sound. He was out of the house without, apparently, having been discovered, and his heart was very heavy as he walked slowly around the yard to the gate, with a long, lonely journey before him and with no idea as to where would be the end.

He had opened the gate and was taking a farewell look at the house, when, to his great delight, the front door was opened and he saw his mother. He would surely be called back now, he thought, and his friends could not accuse him of having been afraid to carry out his plans.

“So you are really going to run away, are you, Tommy?” said his mother, who did not appear in the least surprised by his intended departure.

“Yes’m,” replied Tom, in a very low tone, feeling foolish and at the same time wondering whether his secret had been betrayed by his friends.

“Well,” continued Mrs. Gibson, speaking in a matter-of-fact way and as if the subject was an indifferent one to her, “if you feel that you must go, I see no reason why you should not have left the house in the daytime; but of course you know best. I noticed that you did not pack any of your clothes, so I put the most of them in this satchel, which I think you will find more convenient than that bundle.”

Tom didn’t want to accept the satchel his mother held out to him; but there seemed to be no other course to pursue, and he took it, feeling as he did so that if his mother had loved him very dearly she would have boxed his ears severely, ordering him at the same time to come back into the house.

“Your father said he heard that Captain Harrison was ready to sail, and knowing that you have decided to sleep under Rankin’s bridge we concluded that you were going with him, since the vessel is in the river just below there.”

Tommy’s heart was so full that he could not speak. Instead of being told to come into the house and behave himself, as he would have been only too glad to do, here was his mother actually helping him to run away, and talking as if she thought it was the best course he could pursue.

“I suppose you are in a hurry, Tommy,” said Mrs. Gibson, kindly, “so I won’t detain you. We shall be glad to see you if you should conclude to come back here. Good-by. I hope you will enjoy yourself better than you ever could at home.”

The door was closed, and the almost broken-hearted runaway could do no less than continue his flight, out of which all the romance had been taken.

II.

As Tom walked from the house he was in a very uncomfortable frame of mind. He felt that his mother had been unkind in allowing him to do as he had at first wanted to do, and that if she had really loved him she would have obliged him to come back. He felt as if he had been wronged because he had not been punished severely, and he was fully convinced that he had made a mistake when he had decided that the only thing he could do was to run away.

There was no possible excuse for him to return. If his mother had not seen him, he believed he would have sneaked back into the house and have borne all the jeers of his schoolmates because he had “backed out.” But he decided that he could not even do that now, and that it was absolutely necessary for him to go on as he had begun.

“How I wish I hadn’t started!” he said to himself as he trudged along toward Rankin’s brook, his bundles growing heavier each moment. “She told me about Captain Harrison’s going away to-morrow, so that I could go with him and that she’d know where I was. But I won’t do anything like that. I’ll go ’way off where she won’t ever see me again, and then she’ll be sorry she was so willing to let me run away.”

Tommy was being severely punished for wanting to leave his home and he knew it, but he had not suffered enough to cause him to be willing to admit his fault and to ask his mother to forgive him; therefore the discouraged runaway very unwillingly continued his decidedly desolate course.

By some singular chance he met no one on his way. If he could have done so he felt that he might in some slight degree revenge himself, for he would have sent word to his mother that he did not intend to go with Captain Harrison and that she should never hear from him again.

But he did not meet any one from the time he left his home until he arrived at the bridge, and then he realized that if the scheme had not been entirely a success neither had the details been perfect. To sleep under Rankin’s bridge, when he thought of it in the daytime, and with his schoolmates around him, was nothing more than a pleasant little adventure; but when it came to carrying the plan into execution it was quite a different matter. The night was dark; the brook gurgled and sang in a most ghostly fashion; the air under the stone arches felt damp; and he could find no place where he could lie down with any prospect of comfort.

“It’s no use. I can’t fix any kind of a bed here, so I’ve got to sit up all night—that’s all there is to it.”

Tom was reckless by this time, and without any care as to a selection of the spot where he was to spend the night he sat down in about as uncomfortable a place as he could have found, confident that the time would seem very short.

He tried to make up his mind as to where he would go when the morning should come; then he felt about for a softer seat, very nearly falling into the water in the attempt. He thought of his mother’s sorrow, which was to be his revenge, and then again he changed his position. He wondered if his schoolmates were snugly tucked up in bed asleep; and then he began to doze, leaning his head against the granite sides of the arch.

Suddenly he awoke with a start that gave him a very uncomfortable twinge in his neck, while every portion of his body was stiff and lame. He thought that he had slept a long time, and he looked out from under the bridge, fully expecting to see the sun. It was as dark as when he first sought this very uncomfortable sleeping-place.

“The sun hasn’t come up,” he said as he settled back on the rock in a very awkward manner, as if it hurt him to move around much; “but I know it must be morning, because I feel as if I’d been asleep ten or twelve hours. I’ll start up the road a little.”

Just at that moment the village clock began to strike and Tom counted:

“One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten, eleven!”

Only eleven o’clock, and he had thought it was time for the sun to rise!

Tom tried to lie down first in one place and then in another, but the sharp-pointed rocks prevented him from assuming anything like a reclining position. Then he thought of his own nice bed; but he knew he could not enjoy it, at least not without too great a sacrifice of manly dignity.

He thought of Captain Harrison’s schooner, which was to sail on the following morning. He might go on board of her; but if he should do so, how could he revenge himself on his mother?

“I can’t stay here all night if it’s going to last as long as this hour has. I don’t want to walk up the road, because I can’t see where I’m going. Mother won’t know for certain that I’ve gone on the Swiftsure, and she’ll feel bad enough to-morrow morning when I don’t come home to breakfast, so I’ll go on board where I can get some sleep.”

Tom knew exactly where the clumsy old schooner was moored, for many a time had he and his friends been up to look at her when she was in port and laughed at the name of Swiftsure, which it seemed must have been painted on her stern in mockery.

With his bundles in his hands he stumbled down through the pasture, following the course of the brook, until he arrived at a little stone pier, at the head of which could be seen the old schooner which had been made ready for a fishing cruise down the coast.

Tom scrambled on board as softly as was possible in the darkness; but he might have saved himself the trouble of taking precautions to prevent any one from hearing him, for the old schooner was deserted and looked quite as lonesome as he felt. The cabin-doors were locked, the hatches were fastened down too securely for him to raise them unaided, and it seemed very much as if even the Swiftsure denied him the shelter he so sadly needed.

On the deck lay an upturned dory. He might crawl under that, and although it would be but poor shelter it was surely better than trying to lie on the sharp rocks under the bridge. Tom was not nearly as particular where he slept as he would have been at home, and he counted himself very fortunate in finding under the boat a quantity of old nets that made him quite a soft bed, so soft, in fact, that he was asleep in less than five minutes after he had found shelter.

Everything had contributed to make Tom very tired on the day when he ran away, and he slept on the fishing-nets quite as soundly as if he had been at home. He did not even hear Captain Harrison and his crew when they came on board at a very early hour in the morning. The bustle and confusion attendant upon getting the Swiftsure under way failed to awaken him. When, however, the Swiftsure was on the open sea, tumbling about on the waves in her own clumsy fashion, he came to understand where he was, and he gained this information in quite a sensational manner.

Shortly after the old schooner had left the dock the wind freshened until it was blowing quite half a gale, and Captain Harrison began to fear that the crazy old sails would be blown away. In order to prevent such a catastrophe, the schooner was hove to and all hands set to work reefing sail.

As a matter of course the clumsy old Swiftsure was wallowing in the trough of the sea, tossing and tumbling about in a most provoking manner. Captain Harrison was helping his crew of fishermen “shorten” the foresail, when, just as all hands were standing amidships trying to reef without pulling the very reef-points out of the decayed canvas, a queer-looking bundle rolled from under the dory, capsizing one or two of the sailors as it struck them and then rolling into the lee scuppers, where it lay uttering cries of pain.

The crew were absolutely frightened, first at seeing this queer-looking parcel and then at hearing it make a noise, while those who had been knocked down actually fled forward in alarm. Captain Harrison started aft, but on looking back he stopped short, gazed for an instant, first at the dory and then at the bundle in the scuppers, and said as he gave his hat a forcible blow, as if to prevent it from flying off his head in surprise, “I’m blowed if it ain’t a boy!”

Tom looked up as if amazed that he should have been mistaken for other than what he was, and then the rolling of the vessel threw him back again toward the dory, tossing him from one side to the other much as if he had been a rubber ball.

“Where did you come from?” roared Captain Harrison, angry now because he had shown what looked to be fear.

“He come out of the dory,” replied one of the men, for Tom was too much engaged in rolling about the deck to be able to make any reply.

It was impossible for all hands to stand staring at Tom when the foresail needed immediate attention, and the sick runaway was allowed to roll up and down the deck at his own sweet will, or, rather, at the will of the wind, until the Swiftsure was on her course again with reduced canvas. Then Captain Harrison shouted, “Somebody catch that boy before he breaks himself all to pieces and bring him aft here to me.”

In a few moments, but not without considerable difficulty, the captain’s orders were obeyed, and Tom, looking pale and thoroughly wretched, was held up in front of the Swiftsure’s commander.

“Why, you’re Tom Gibson!” exclaimed that gentleman, in surprise.

Tom nodded his head; he could not trust himself to speak.

“How came you on board? Been running away, eh?”

Again Tom nodded his head, and Captain Harrison began to understand that his passenger was in no mood for conversation.

“Take him below; I’ll dress him down after he gets a little better.”

Tom was led below into a cabin that smelled like fish, oil, stale vegetables, and, in fact, everything that is disagreeable. And there, amid this combination of terrible odors, poor, sick, runaway Tom could hear the creaking and grinding of the timbers of the crazy old hulk, while all he could do was to moan and groan in unison.

III.

If at any time during the twenty-four hours following Tom Gibson’s appearance among the startled crew of the Swiftsure that young gentleman had been asked if the old schooner was in any danger, he would have answered that she would surely sink within an hour and that all on board would perish with her.

No one asked Tom such a question; but he fully believed that it was impossible for the old craft to live much longer in the gale, and although he knew he was in even a more dangerous position than any one else, owing to the fact that he was below, he felt so sick that he paid but little attention to the supposed danger.

At the end of twenty-four hours, however, matters presented a decidedly different appearance. The wind having subsided, the clumsy old schooner no longer tumbled and tossed about; the sun was shining brightly, and, what was of more importance to Tom, he had so nearly recovered from his illness as to have eaten a very hearty breakfast in spite of the mixture of bad odors that had been so disagreeable to him.

Tom went on deck, almost enjoying the motion of the vessel which, a few hours before, had been so uncomfortable, and was beginning to think that there was some pleasure to be had by running away, when Captain Harrison said, in anything but a pleasant tone of voice:

“Well, Tom, you’ve come on board my vessel and eaten my food without so much as asking my permission, so now s’posin’ me an’ you have some kind of a settlement.”

Poor Tom! All idea of enjoyment vanished at once, and again he understood that the boy who runs away is obliged to pay a very high price for what is a continual pain, rather than a pleasure.

“Why don’t you say something?” demanded Captain Harrison. “Do you think I keep this schooner jest to accommodate boys who want to run away from home?”

“No, sir,” faltered Tom; “but I don’t know what to say, because, you see, I don’t know how we can have a settlement, unless you should take the things I brought on board to pay you.”

“I’ve seen what you brought with you,” thundered Captain Harrison, acting as if he was very angry, although if any one had been observing him closely a twinkle of mirth could have been seen in his eyes. “All the traps you’ve got wouldn’t pay for your breakfast. Now listen to me and take care that you don’t forget what I say. You’ve seen fit to come aboard this schooner, which is bound on a fishing cruise, consequently you’ve got to pay my price for your fun. You’ll have to do your share of the work without grumbling, and I tell you candidly that it’ll be more than you ever dreamed of, coddled by your mother as you have been.”

It was pretty hard for a boy who had run away from home because he had been obliged to work too hard to be told that he would have so much to do that what he had been obliged to submit to at home was hardly more than petting. But he had run away, and he was obliged to pay the price. He did not even dare to offer any objections, for he understood only too well that he was in the captain’s power.

“Why don’t you go to work?” shouted Captain Harrison, after he had given Tom plenty of time in which to think the matter over.

“I don’t know what to do.”

“Go forward and you’ll soon find plenty to keep you out of mischief.”

Tom did as he was directed, and he learned that the captain had said no more than was strictly true. Every one on board appeared to think that he had a perfect right to set a task for the stowaway and there was no hesitation about doing so. If the cook wanted wood split, the pots and pans scoured, vegetables pared, or any other disagreeable work done Tom was called upon, and he soon learned that it was dangerous to refuse. If any of the crew wanted an assistant at any time or on any piece of work, Tom was that assistant, and at the slightest hesitation a blow was given to remind him that in no sense was he his own master. He was the boy-of-all-work and with no opportunity to play.

Compared with his condition on the Swiftsure, Tom had lived a life of luxurious ease at home, and there was hardly a moment, when he was awake, during which he did not regret that he had ever been so foolish as to run away.

Before the fishing-grounds were reached the Swiftsure put into a harbor for supplies, and there Tom decided upon a bold step. He asked one of the men who had treated him with more consideration than the others had done to lend him two cents with which to buy a postage stamp, and on a dirty piece of paper he wrote the following letter to his mother:

“Dear Mama,—I was wicked to want to run away, and I want to come back terribly. If I had any money I would try to get back from here; but I haven’t, so I shall have to stay till this old vessel comes home. You’ll let me come, won’t you, mother? I won’t say a word, no matter how hard you whip me for running away, and I won’t ever grumble when you want me to do anything. My hands are all covered with blisters; but they don’t begin to be as sore as my heart is when I have to get into these dirty berths at night, knowing that I can’t even speak to you. Don’t be angry with me any more, but please let me in when I come home.

“Yours truly,

“Thomas Gibson.”

Captain Harrison, who had seen Tom writing, and who suspected at once to whom the letter was to be sent, gave the boy an envelope and allowed him to go on shore in order to mail it.

Tom felt better after this, even though his condition was in no wise improved. His mother would know that he was sorry for what he had done, and even though but a short time before he had looked upon her as a hard-hearted parent, it seemed as if her forgiveness was the one thing he wanted above all others.

If, during the voyage to the fishing-grounds, Tom thought he had worked as hard as was possible, he learned that he had been mistaken when the real labor of the cruise was commenced. All day he was obliged to fish with twenty or thirty fathoms of line, to which was attached a heavy sinker of lead that required nearly all his strength to pull up, and when the catch had been large he was compelled to remain up half the night helping the men dress the fish. His hands, which had been covered with blisters, as he wrote his mother, were cut and bleeding, while many times the pain was so great that he could not go to sleep even when he had the opportunity.

In this work Tom could not say that he was obliged to do more than any one else; all hands worked to the best of their ability, and it but serves to show that Tom was getting to be quite a sensible boy when it is said that he felt he was doing no more than was right under the circumstances. But nevertheless his heart was quite as sore and his homesickness as severe as when he wrote the letter to his mother. The only time when he was in the slightest degree contented was when he was fishing. He knew that the sooner the old schooner was loaded, the sooner would she be headed toward home, and he counted each fish he caught as another step toward his getting home to Sedgwick and to mother.

The time finally came, six weeks after Tom had started to pass the night under Rankin’s bridge, when Captain Harrison said:

“We won’t ‘dress down’ to-night, boys; but try to carry back fresh what we catch to-day.”

“What does he mean by that?” Tom asked of one of the crew.

“It means that we shall start for home after the fish are done biting to-day.”

Tom could hardly realize his good-fortune, and he worked in a dazed sort of way, but kept repeating to himself each moment: “I’m going home, I’m going home. And what’s better, I’ll stay when I get there.”

At an early hour that afternoon the bow of the old Swiftsure was turned toward Sedgwick, and as she rose and fell heavily on the waves, sending clouds of spray fore and aft, Tom could hardly refrain from giving vent to his joy by at least three hearty cheers.

The trip home was by no means as speedy as Tom could have desired. It seemed to him as if the old vessel was sailing more slowly than she had ever sailed before and as if the winds were really trying to delay him.

Then came the day when he could see the spire of the church in Sedgwick, and just at the time when he knew that his father and mother were sitting down to supper Tom leaped on shore. He waited for nothing, but ran home at full speed, and it was not until he had kissed his mother and father again and again and heard them assure him of their forgiveness that he could breathe freely.

As may be expected, Tom had not been home more than an hour before the friends to whom he had confided his purpose of running away called to see him and to learn how much of his fortune he had made.

“I tell you what it is, fellows,” he said, in reply to their questions. “I’m not as big a fool as I was before I ran away. I thought I was having a mighty hard time of it here, but I soon found out my mistake. All I can say is that I pity fellows that haven’t got any homes to go to when they get as homesick as I was.”

“Then you don’t think of running away again very soon?” suggested Dwight Holden, laughingly.

“Boys,”—and Tom spoke very solemnly now—“when I was on the Swiftsure I found out how lonesome a boy can be without his mother; I never knew before. Just as long as I can I shall stay where I can see my mother and speak to her; and if at any time any one of you thinks that his mother isn’t the best and dearest friend a boy can have, just do as I did and it won’t take you very long to find out that you are mistaken.”

THE END

Transcriber’s Notes:

Except for the frontispiece, illustrations have been moved to follow the text that they illustrate, so the page number of the illustration may not match the page number in the Illustrations.

Punctuation and spelling inaccuracies were silently corrected.

Archaic and variable spelling has been preserved.

Variations in hyphenation and compound words have been preserved.

A bonus short story (“Tom’s Troubles”), by the author, is included in the source volume, and follows the main story at p. 209.

*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK TIM AND TIP ***

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Table of Contents

- TIM AND TIP
- CONTENTS
- ILLUSTRATIONS
- Chapter I. TIM’S FLIGHT.
- Chapter II. SAM, THE FAT BOY.

- Chapter III. TIP’S INTRODUCTION TO MRS. SIMPSON.

- Chapter IV. TIM’S START IN LIFE.

- Chapter V. LIFE ON BOARD THE “PRIDE OF THE WAVE.”

- Chapter VI. TIM MAKES AN ACQUAINTANCE.

- Chapter VII. TIP’S HURRIED LANDING.

- Chapter VIII. MINCHIN’S ISLAND.

- Chapter IX. THE FAMOUS BEAR-HUNT.

- Chapter X. BILL THOMPSON’S TENT.

- Chapter XI. ONE COOK SPOILS THE BROTH.

- Chapter XII. TIP’S DANGER.

- Chapter XIII. IN CONCLUSION.

- TOM’S TROUBLES

- I.

- II.

- III.

- THE FULL PROJECT GUTENBERG™ LICENSE